A New Mourning: Chronicles of Xephyrien
by PaphaBear
Summary: There is no peace in death. Having survived the myriad conflicts in Azeroth and beyond, what does Deathwing's reemergence hold for such an old, tired soul? Some Mature Themes, Blood/Gore, Please Rate & Review
1. Prologue and Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Warcraft, World of Warcraft or any franchise held therein. The recognizeable names here are owned by the procrastinators at Blizzard (where the fuck is my StarCraft 2?), however my original ones are MINE (duh).

**Note:** I've made things as accurate as I can to the known lore, if any who care to correct me on some points are out there, then please feel free. I'll appreciate comments on how these first chapters are. Please don't flame me or my work as I'll ignore them. Anything constructive will be awesome, thanks.

**A New Mourning: Chronicles of Xephyrien**

**Prologue: Lesser Evils**

-_8 years ago_-

Things were never secrets for long. People are desperate to clutch at things that give them hope, even wishing for another unknown evil to replace the ones they know.

The war against the Lich King, Arthas, was at a long and exhausting stalemate. No one side could gain ground. The Scourge however only grew, the more deaths that were caused by the war.

Darion Mograine paced. Whispers and rumors, nothing more. It was one thing to hope for something, and another to actually build it. He'd already had to silence some of these gossip-mongers before. He wasn't even sure if it could be done. Well, he was sure it could. But again?

After the events at Light's Hope Chapel, where the Ashbringer was purified and drove back Arthas, the assault had taken a longer turn through the exasperating and the sorrowful. As a Death Knight, he couldn't feel any of that, but felt it through his allies in the Argent Crusade.

He'd begun the Ashen Verdict as a way to bring the best craftsmen, the best smiths of the Ebon Blade and the Argent Crusade to see if they would

If only He hadn't taken it away after forging. Toiling at the Rune Forges for close to three years, the single Death Knight forged it himself and then secreted it away. It had a strange effect on him too. It made him immune to the Dark Prince's command. After that, and before Light's Hope… He vanished.

Highlord Darion took off his helm and massaged his temples.

Even if another Shadowmourne could be made, who would have the heart – or soul – to wield it.

In theory, Darion could have the blade forged already; could list the materials that were used in the creation of the fabled rune axe. Its creator told Darion how, himself.

First needed is a consecrated weapon of the Light, which is first to be defiled by the Scourge's poisons, a symbol of its wielder's vengeance. The crystallized blood of an old god, impure Saronite, Shadowfrost, the fragments of the Frozen Throne, and a thousand souls of the Scourge's own to fuel the blade's hunger. After which, an infusion of all three powers that Death Knights are known for, Unholy, Blood, and Frost energies

Gaining these ingredients were all quests that would seem to be the height of stupidity and not lightly undertaken. It was easier to make before, when they were all of them thralls to the will of the Lich King.

No one but a Death Knight would allow themselves to sacrifice so much to win. And none but a Paladin of the Light may be able to resist whatever spirit the blade might hold. History alone has proven that a Death Knight might not be able to control it. And yet, with Arthas himself having once been a Paladin, that track record wasn't exactly untarnished.

Highlord Darion's normally seamless expressionless mien had been a sea of unbroken doubt and anxiety for more a few hours now. His closest aides saw, and were afraid of what it would entail.

* * *

-_Present_-

The mercenaries geared up and packed the saddlebags of various flight-capable mounts. Shattrath City was a good place to seek employment. Many if not all factions were welcomed there by the Naaru in a bid for alliance against the demonic Burning Legion. The opportunities doubled here and in Dalaran for every client. Being common ground, one could buy the best of both Horde and Alliance products here at a slight mark-up for the export costs and Portal Tax.

The mercenary group was being eyed by a Gnomish blacksmith. He was going to be a whole lot richer today when that group comes over. He was sure of them coming over. The lower city of Shattrath hummed and buzzed like wasps nest, but his weapons were of great quality. And by the look of their worn gear, they only could afford something from down here rather than in the lofty spire of Shattrath. Though with the entire group using fliers, he knew they weren't strapped for cash either.

The City of Light may be a shambling mess of refugees from the wars that raged in the different regions of Outland, but this inter-mingling was good for business. Many groups of warriors and heroes used it as a guidepost, in the battle against the Legion.

Presently a blood elf from the group hoisted his pack onto his personal Netherdrake and walked toward his shop. His better cared for armor meant that he was most probably the leader. The gnome chuckled inwardly as he shuffled to his tall lectern that made up for his stature, behind the counter. He shooed Gespacht, his gnomish attendant and apprentice away and whispering that a customer was coming.

The tall elf walked through the door. His waist-length silvery-white hair rippled in the air from the outside, softly draping the front of his armor. With him entered a cold gust of wind, and the gnomish blacksmith shivered, nervous of some hidden threat. His eyebrows, the same color as his hair, made soft arcs above his brooding eyes and a moustache and a goatee trailed silver lines around his mouth. His face was visible enough and the gnome couldn't think of why he would be afraid, as the Scryers themselves were blood elves.

"Y-yes? How may I help you?" the gnome said almost too loudly in the thrill of the elf's presence.

The blood elf walked toward the counter, the haft of a two-handed axe visible above his right shoulder.

"I would like you to ready three sets of Savage Saronite armour by next week. I have three new warrior recruits in my retinue, and I would travel today to see them earn it", he said in a baritone.

"Yes of course," the gnome said with gaining confidence. "And ah… how will we be paid for our services? Uh… sir?"

"You can choose to be paid now for seven thousand gold pieces for each set, or the full price of eight thousand for each set when we get back."

The gnome almost fell off the lectern he was standing on. The man knew the asking price and fell into a deal without even haggling. And three sets of Savage Saronite make was only about 7,500 gold pieces worth.

The elf turned as he agreed to being paid later in the week. Agreeing to take a gamble as a show of trust for the fifteen hundred gold bonus that he'd receive.

The gnome saw a heavily wrapped great axe strapped to the elf's back. It was a strange weapon for an elf's lithe grace to be sure, but a weapon choice that was not unknown at all. If the elf had wanted it repaired, he would have asked. Still, he could've sworn that he was being watched by eyes from the elf's back as he walked away.

It was only later, while hammering at the commissioned pieces that he remembered something. The blood elf's own eyes didn't glow green as all of his race's eyes did. The same feeling of dread and fear returned. A chill wind blew in, and roused the fire of the forge.

* * *

**Chapter 1: The Proving Grounds**

Darkeye felt it.

He felt it quiver with jealousy. The heavy claymore, however enchanted with magefire was a poor substitute and IT knew. It wanted to get out. It wanted him to release it from the magical wards and shields, to be free of its spellcloth prison and drink. Feed.

He suppressed it. The enormous form of the magnataur was closing in and he couldn't afford to be distracted. The mercenaries under his command had asked him about it several times before, but after a few months of fruitless questioning, they knew better than to test their captain.

The three new warriors, an orc and a couple of humans fought well. The mercenary company would be happy to recruit them. The other, a female tauren hunter was also just as impressive.

A rifle's roar brought him out of his reverie just in time to roll out of the way of a falling tree.

The enraged magnataur's bellows and crude Common echoed. He could hear its breathing as well and knew it was tiring. He unsheathed a dagger and wielded his claymore one-handed. He focused some of his fighting energy into it and felt it try to leave his hand.

Signalling four of his men to distract the rampaging creature, he ran to his second-in-command, a Shaman, Rogash Wraithstorm, who was blasting blueish-white lightning into the raging magnataur.

"Rogash, bring your Spirit Wolves to attract its attention, and then cast Bloodlust on everyone on my mark."

"Yes Captain Darkeye," the Orc replied as he began casting the spell to bring forth his animal familiars.

Darkeye positioned himself right behind the magnataur's flailing hooves just as on of the four he'd commended earlier, a paladin, flew across to his right, trailing blood. A Forsaken priest, Lucas Oliver, rushed to his side to ascertain if he was alright. Darkeye saw the priest raise skeletal hands and exude light to heal the damage.

Even from a distance and during the split second that he'd seen all of it happen, Darkeye's long centuries of experience told him it was probably an arm and several ribs.

Darkeye raised an arm and brought it down sharply to let Rogash know that he was to begin casting the Bloodlust spell. One of the warriors, a broad-backed Tauren actually reared his head as he felt the spell take hold.

Darkeye's skin crawled with the anticipation called forth by the spell. Thunder rang in his elongated ears as Rogash shifted attention to damaging the magnataur's tough hide again.

The magnataur swung a spear the size of a tree at the spirit wolves who danced around the strike, nipping at the forehooves.

A lanky troll hunter fired several arrows at once. Her draw sped up by the spell Rogash had cast. Another hunter, Kulldor Runetotem fired his rifle while crouching, spitting burning ammunition at the magnataur's arched back.

The beast roared and reared up onto its two hind legs like a spooked horse.

It was the opening Darkeye had waited for. He stabbed his dagger into the creature's ten foot tall hind leg, right into the meat of its rump, and used it to climb.

He felt a darker thrill than the one given by the shaman's spell. A dark call that was at once repulsively malicious, and seductively alluring. He shielded his mind from it and quickly ran up the magnataur's rump.

The massive creature swung wildly, panicked at the intruding presence running up its back.

Darkeye fell when the magnataur bucked. He grabbed onto the long tusk that protruded from the creature's comparatively small jaw. The creature saw him dangling and tried once more to shake him off. A mistake.

Darkeye used the swing to catapult him onto the broad shoulders and bringing his claymore around, stabbed straight down into the creature's neck, piercing the magnataur's heart.

Another thrilling call, dark and compelling, coursed through his heart. His control lapsed for a second and if anyone were face to face with him that instant, they would have seen his eyes glow a dull blue. No one saw it. Nor would they have felt the sudden frost that gripped the claymore in his hand.

He suppressed the feeling again as the creature wobbled, death finally having claimed it. Darkeye jumped onto its back, deftly swinging on the dagger he'd left stabbed like a ladder rung. The closest of his mercenaries jumped back as the magnataur hit the ground, shaking loose snow off the nearby trees.

The men and women of the mercenary band cheered as Darkeye sheathed his two blades, and his thoughts.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Reforged**

"Captain Darkeye, a word?"

Darkeye turned. His long silver hair whipped around his back.

"Yes, Brother Lucas?"

"Sir, Gregor's arm is almost sheared off, it's all I can do to keep him from bleeding out. He won't survive a long trek across the breadth of Northrend to the Warsong Hold," the Forsaken's rotting eyes, alight with twin pinpricks of ghostfire, showed little emotion, yet his voice was fraught with worry.

"Take him back on your wyvern. It will be faster, and the rest of us will meet you there," Darkeye nodded.

"Aye captain," the priest saluted. "Anything you might want to pass along to the headquarters? It might be done quicker as I will arrive days before you?"

Darkeye briefly considered. "I'll write a status report and a supply invoice for the main headquarters. It will be ready by the time we depart. Return here by then."

Lucas saluted, straightening his bent frame as best he could and exited the tent.

As the entry flap of the tent swung, the smell of magnataur blood seeped from the outside. His men had taken most of the carcass and turned it into tradeable items. The entire skin hung to dry in the pale northern sun, and Darkeye knew that the skull would sell high to collectors.

Darkeye began writing the report and the invoice. It detailed his purchase of the three new sets of armour for the recruits and the injury to Gregor Ishmael's shield arm.

He dripped hot wax onto the edge of the folded letter and stamped the agency logo into it.

His bare feet felt the cold of the snow through the carpets and rugs that made up the tent's floor. His small foldable desk and the bundle of furs that made up his cot were the only furnishings. No lamp was visible. Light could be provided by spells and other immaterial means. On his desk was a vial of blood from the Core Hounds, used instead of candlewax to place seals for official missives and letters.

He warded his tent with an old spell. It made eavesdroppers temporarily deaf and made him instantly aware of anyone intending to approach, providing him with a small amount of privacy. He whispered another that would prevent magical probing of any sort so as to make everyone outside oblvious to what happened within.

Darkeye removed the shoulder scabbard that held his claymore, and threw it to the cot. He then unbuckled and placed his dagger on the desk.

He heard all of the other mercenaries dallying about, laughing, drinking; some were making sure that the camp would be ready to leave at a moments notice, and still others, notably the were pacing the camp perimeter. All of them busy.

Good.

The elf stripped himself of his garments, each article of clothing piled around his feet.

His heartbeat quickened as he strode over to the great axe wrapped in thrice-blessed, thrice-enchanted spellcloth. Floating runes, invisible to anyone without the proper training, spun revolving around the axe head. Darkeye whispered a short spell and the light inside the tent dimmed. The wind no longer played the edges of the tent. The air shimmered with magic as light was imprisoned by darkness around the axe, and the floating runes began to falter, slowly each one going out. The light seemed to retreat into the weapon leaving only a near absolute blanket of shadow in the tent. The ghostly light gathered about the axe but no further. Beyond it, the tent was devoid of light.

Night imprisoned day in the small tent, but none on the outside noticed. The magic was designed in this way. Only if they dared enter would they be subject to its effect.

Darkeye closed his eyes, held his arms forward and slowly, imbuing each word with power, he spoke an oath releasing all of the dark power that was his grisly inheritance.

"I take up the mantle of the power of decay, of death, and oblivion. I sow destruction, and end life to continue the cycle, blood for blood, old for new, let the wheel turn. Let souls scream in terror in the face of my power, let the world freeze over in my grip, for I am death's hand. I am a Death Knight."

Darkeye opened his eyes as a sickly, pale blue glow emanated from them.

Darkeye who was once Xephyrien Flamehawk, a Highborne foot soldier of the old city of Suramar itself before it crumbled into the waves ten millennia ago, reached out with a tendril of power and let the great axe lift into the air.

Xephyrien reached out a hand and held it by the haft. The spellcloth's magic yielded before his touch as it unravelled. Xephyrien felt a rise in the voice of his inner mind; a roaring, straining presence, as if chained in a dungeon far beneath.

_'Finally…'_ it whispered.

"Not yet, O child of light and dark." Xephyrien whispered.

_'Then why release me Old One? Why do you inflict pain on us both? Why?... father?'_

"Cease calling me that." He told it acidly.

_'You made me, forged me. It is my right to do so.'_

"You're wrong. It is a privilege. And it is MY right to deny you that privilege Shadowmourne, as you well know. My children died defenceless against the Scourge, even as I led them into battle all those years ago. And you are not a child of mine." thinly veiled outrage in his voice.

_'Regardless… The souls inside me quaked at the elation they felt when Frostmourne shattered by Highlord Fordring's hand. Yet we are now left purposeless, in the dark recesses of this… body we inhabit'_

"Shadowmourne… don't forget, I myself am imprisoned in your depths." Xephyrien turned away, seemingly ashamed of the truth in his words.

'Indeed you are, Old One. Indeed you are.'


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Until Death**

The Highborne elves were to be exiled.

The Highborne soldier known as Xephyrien Flamehawk was resigned to it. He'd been too blinded by the Queen and her magisters. The time for payment had come. The pain of addiction and the whiplash of magical energies had made his bones sear with pain. Yet it was nothing to the regret he felt. He wasn't innocent, far from it; he himself drank down the energies of the Well of Eternity, used them against his own people.

Oh he fought against the myriad demons that poured through the portal of the Well of Eternity, finally awakened to the truth of their mad Queen's lust for power. The Light of Lights, most beautiful creature to have ever exist had destroyed them all. Or attempted to.

The Kaldorei, the ones who'd been called traitors and subservient to the Queen Azshara's rule were the ones who'd truly kept them from cataclysm. He didn't even look like his own people anymore. His skin had lightened several tones from the rich purple it once was. He only regretted that the Sunstriders had rejected the Kaldorei's offers of peace in sacrificing the arcane powers they had gained.

Pride. His race was being torn apart by pride. His idealistic heart beat wildly at this truth. Rejecting it, but unable to deny it. As if he had a right to.

Across the sea, he became a general in the Troll Wars, fighting against the Amani Kingdom gaining glories under his name, yet neither diminishing the bitterness and the regret.

His biology came to depend on the Sunwell, just like his exiled brethren, he no longer had skin of purple. Still calling themselves High Elves, as if they were justified in their disdain of the Kaldorei. He didn't engage in the arcane arts, even when the others of his race formed what would become the magical realm of Dalaran. He was content to drink in, the dregs of his sorrow.

Others would call him Xephyrien the Mourner, first of many, many names.

By the time of the First and Second Wars, his sorrow had faded slightly. Almost forgotten. Almost.

He'd been married and had three sons, two daughters, and two grandchildren. His face looked a little worn now yet the Sunwell bought him a terrible beauty, a stern exterior that many younger elfmaids found secretly attractive. He was happiest during this time. As happy as he could have ever been.

The army wasn't blooded often in the war, and so he had plenty of time with his own family affairs. The elven disdain for the war against the orcish Horde was unsurprising. The haughtiness was not new, regardless of how surprised some humans were.

Now a Colonel, his relatively low rank sometimes rankled his sons, trying to persuade him to rise higher: To use magic. He refused. To be a magister, to become even more dependent on the magic now, would make him remember all the ghosts of his past. He refused. And yet, neither did he forbid the study of it when concerning his children. Two of his sons and one of his daughters entered into apprenticeship with wizards from the Kirin Tor. His other son chose to devote himself to the cloth, as a Priest of the Holy Light.

Only one of them stayed. Elmeera, his youngest, chose to become a Thalassian Ranger, and placed her close at hand. They fought together when she was placed under the division under his command. Regarding his command, he was flexible and quick in tactics; something that gained him respect among his subordinates, including his own daughter.

Then came a blow to his heart so deep he swore it left a physical scar. Elmeera was reassigned to Ranger General Alleria's personal retinue. Though he surpassed her in years, experience and skill, her determination and tenacity was something he admired in someone younger than he. Xephyrien let Elmeera go to her new assignment.

Little did he know that it would lead her to the realm beyond cursed Dark Portals of the Guardian Medivh.

Losing Elmeera brought the entire family together. His other children came back. They barely knew what to say to him. It brought back his grief of old. He distanced himself from a family he no longer belonged to. His grief had driven an invisible but permanent wedge in between him and his wife, his children, and his home. Scarce were the moments when he didn't hear Elmeera's laughter echo in the house, or the singing of her bowstring in the Thalassian barracks. His duty to his country as a soldier was all he had left now. Again, he began to grieve.

In the beginning stages of the plague's grip on Azeroth, Quel'Thalas was unperturbed, rebuilding after the incidents at Caer Darrow, and the ravaged borderlands of the Elf Kingdom.

It was then that the voice first called to him. It told him that there would be solace in the new cults, that salvation from his grief could be found. He told himself that he was getting old, senile, for in fact, he was quite aged. He thought that his mind had given voice to his grievances and troubles, heavy as they were. The voice silenced for a time.

King Anasterian paid no heed to the call of the Kirin Tor, only raising the alarm when the kingdom itself was under sudden attack.

His remaining children, having stayed at the behest of their mother, joined him in an impromptu defence of their homeland. The rangers were called into action, led by Alleria's younger sister Sylvanas. He'd become the General of the standing armies of Quel'Thalas, and led the defence. He commanded runners to send for help to any who might answer, but they'd been intercepted by the traitor Prince, Arthas.

In the final stand to defend the center of Quel'Thalas, his sons fell. His own Light-blessed sabre slew the shambling form of the stitched horror that still had his sons' blood on its meat hooks and cleavers.

It was not enough. As he dove for a masked necromancer, he was snared by a ghoulish creature as it flew on bat's wings. He fought to be released, still feeling the death of his loved ones acutely, his thinking wasn't as clear. He stabbed his blade into the gargoyle's stony hide and it released him.

And he fell.

Down at the foot of a guardian of the Sunwell, an Iron Golem, his shattered body fell, still holding onto life. The battle raged around him, and he was covered over by other corpses. Elven sorceresses, swordsmen, and rangers all fell beneath the might of the unstoppable foe.

Through blurred vision, he saw an armoured rider dump the contents of an urn into the Sunwell. He felt a sharp pain course through. A pain he had not felt since they were exiled from Kalimdor, and right after that, a feeling of weakness, of sickness; a malign and cancerous growth that threatened to devour him from within. The corruption of the Sunwell had taken place. Xephyrien's fading gaze fell onto the runeblade at the man's hip. His heart despaired and he fell into the arms of death, not unwilling.

Cold hands; hard, skeletal, large hands dragged him upward without his knowledge.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: Malice Bound**

The Lich King's voice was imperious as it was commanding. It could not be disobeyed.

The elf once known as Xephyrien Flamehawk was dead. In his place was risen a new creature, entirely subservient to the dark will of the Lich King. One who didn't care about the past, erasing his old regrets and sorrows.

Lord Malicebound was born. His new liege commanded him to travel North along with three others of his Death Knights while the Prince Arthas was to remain in his kingdom.

Upon his arrival, he was brought to an altar made of a slate-like grey-blue metal; cunning in form and in function, two skeletal hands grasped a heavy greatsword etched with unholy runes.

A ponderous blade with sharp edges after a heavy sweeping bevel, in his previous life he could never have lifted such a weapon.

The voice compelled him to do it. He took the blade by his right hand and frost began building up on the blade and nearly up his arm.

_'I have granted your new weapon dominion over the frosts of this land. Now destroy the creature behind you to grant your blade a taste for the darkness,' _commanded the Lich King from within his mind.

He turned and saw a giant of a man. The creature looked human, but was at least thrice the size in proportion. The thing, a vrykul he would later learn, was in the throes of undeath. Pulsing green energies burst forth from the creature's rotten flesh, decaying and reknitting wounds in varying degrees of speed. The whole spectacle was almost amusing as the thing grew and shrunk in different places at once.

The vrykul swung an arm as Malicebound defended. The blade required two hands to use, but it was surprisingly fast as it cut through the air. He succeeded in severing a leg after a few minutes of fighting, and it was enough to open the vrykul up for an upward slash that parted the two halves of its chest and head. The ten foot tall bulk of the giant humanoid faltered and fell over.

The resurrected elf stared at his runeblade as a surge of malevolent power shot through it. A bluish wisp rose from the torn corpse and entered his blade. It flashed a sickly green.

_'Good. I was right to place faith in one such as you. I see your mind. You are old beyond the reckoning of many. Now you will be timeless. A lasting crescendo whose name will inspire fear and terror upon those who hear your name.'_

"I live to serve, my King," he replied in a hushed whisper, cold breath fogging.

_'Now all that is left is to see your willingness to serve my dark will, my grand scheme for this world'_

"What is your bidding?"

_'Take your blade. It must now feed upon blood. Still your heart beats. You were brought under my command not because you died, but because of your hate, your suffering. Now, the blade must be etched with this sorrow, this madness which is in you. For you to truly become its master, the only way is for you to die by your own weapon.'_

"As commanded." Malicebound held the runeblade by the middle with both hands, bleeding with symmetrical cuts on his palms from holding the edge. Without any trace of hesitation, he stabbed the blade into his throat and out his back, severing his spine, his arteries, and his windpipe.

He didn't bleed a single drop. The runeblade had frozen his blood, his heart, his soul. He was now bound by it, to the Lich King's will. Lord Malicebound had been forged into death itself. He pulled the blade out and a chill glow, pale and ghostly, emanated from his once bright green eyes. To another, it would have seemed a perversion of the Sunwell's arcane, blue light.

A strange elation hit him.

_'Now you shall take death's mantle, sow decay and terror, become the tip of my spear.'_

"As you wish."

_'Now, Death Knight, take your oath to the dark powers. Repeat as I instruct you now...__ I take up the mantle of the power of decay, of death, and oblivion...'_

Darkeye uttered the oath, aware of the power each syllable held.

* * *

He named his runeblade, _Necromundis_. A reflection of how the world had died in his eyes.

After his initiation, he fought many battles, killed many opponents, all in the Lich King's name. His troops swept through the land, razing town after town of the last bastions of Lordaeron's defense. Malicebound's assault force took down orc internment camps, levelled the fortresses, and turned their inhabitants and their prisoners into reinforcements.

He was even part of a small skirmish force that probed the edges of Dun Morogh, testing the dwarven lands before being recalled to Northern Lordaeron. It was at that defeat that Necromundis had broken. The Lich King's voice assured him that it would be reforged and bade him return to the frozen north.

After the failure of the Burning Legion and the death of Archimonde at the World Tree, he was secretly recalled to convene with the other great servants of Ner'Zhul. He was given the charge of the Death Knights' runeforges: what would eventually form the rear guard and logistics of the spearhead formed by the forces of the dread citadel, Naxxrammas.

At first he chafed at being placed in such low regard by his liegelord. It was almost menial work. Almost.

It was during this time that he felt the personal desire to recreate Necromundis, to reforge it and make it better than it ever was. His purpose had been determined, the reason clear as to why he was left to tend to the supply force. To serve his lord better, he must remake his blade.

He bade the forgemasters to teach him their art. Knowing the basics of their craft from ages past, he drank in their knowledge easily. The seigesmiths and the saronite creations all looked at his wiry but knotted muscles, admiring each new work. Yet all of them were mere copies of Necromundis, all of them inferior to the original. He needed a new weapon. One which would rival even Frostmourne itself.

He needed something pure and holy that he could break. Something that he could bend to the dark will of Ner'Zhul.

After obtaining permission from the voice of the Lich King, Malicebound left command to a senior Scourge acolyte. Boarding a sky terror zeppelin he planned to create one of the greatest weapons that his new skill could create.

He was going back to the Sunwell.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: Battle Scars**

Rogash eyed the swirling clouds of nerubian fliers. Loyal to the Scourge, the undead arachnids were more a nuisance than a true danger. Since Arthas fell to the forces of the Ashen Verdict a year ago, the Scourge's larger, deadlier creatures had retreated back into the Icecrown Citadel itself, leaving token forces outside its walls and in the mostly empty catacombs that had once swarmed with them.

His low-hanging robe of enchanted mail snagged on a cobble.

Rishi Bloodfang, a troll hunter, tried to stop and help him but the wagons that bore the magnataur remains trundled along and swept him away.

Rishi was great hearted and kind, but Rogash didn't need the help anyway. He shuffled a leg to unstuck himself and walked on behind Tagar, the lone orc warrior among the three recruits.

The two humans were stout-hearted and well versed in battlefield tactics. They carried shields and heavy mattocks and swords, giving them a reasonable chance at surviving most any blow. Yet there was just something about the ferocity that Rogash saw in Tagar. Particularly as the weapons slung on the orc warrior's broad back couldn't be carried by lesser men with two hands let alone wield them both at once.

A chill ran up his back as he looked at his captain's mien. Darkeye had started into another of his brooding moods. Rogash had known there was more to his captain then met the eye. For one, the spirits of the land fled and quieted during the times he would stay closeted in his tent, or the room at the inn, or at his quarters at the mercenary barracks.

As far as he knew, Captain Darkeye's small company had been employed by the goblin Trade Princes as a mercenary troop for hire. At first Rogash had been annoyed while in his shamanistic meditation, the elemental whispering of the wind and the rain had suddenly and abruptly hushed. After the second time that it had happened, he tried following the strange magic like a lifeline.

It led him to the captain's tent.

There was a simple but powerful spell on it. Rogash stopped trying after the fourth time he'd been caught in the lightning flash of silence. He was sure of it though, that Captain Darkeye was the source.

Presently, Captain Darkeye was now talking to Father Lucas, the Forsaken priest that he sent ahead with the injured Gregor Ishmael. Rogash hastened to Darkeye's side.

"How goes his recovery then?" Darkeye asked, in his deep voice. Rogash had never heard another elf voice to rival it. Like a rolling drum deep inside, quite unlike the bragging, self-assuredness of many of the Sin'dorei.

A few of the Blood elves and High elves they'd encountered had been perturbed by it as well. It was almost gravelly, worn out. But it was commanding and resonated with the same ancient ring. It made people listen because it made everything that Darkeye spoke sound important. And it always was important.

"He would have been on the way to a nice and long vacation, had we not healed him in time. He would have lived, but it might have made him retire; such an injury. Truth be told, he was more worried about the state of his shield than his shield-arm," Lucas told them both in a voice that almost resembled mirth. "He very nearly tore open his shoulder again after hearing that it was sheared in half."

"Ah he would have been worse if it hadn't broken away. His arm might have truly sheared right off, and THAT would have made him *_Lohn'Goron_to a different place than simply here to Warsong Hold… more likely to a place more permanent. If only you'd succeeded in FULLY healing him so that wouldn't have had to hurry back." Rogash interjected.

"True, but my powers could only mend so much in the field" Lucas agreed, "By your leave Captain, Vice-Captain" and saluted.

Darkeye cast a sideways glance at Rogash with an unreadable expression.

"Captain, what is it?"

"I don't think you trust him Rogash. Why?"

"Captain… You know my brother was at the Angrathar as part of Saurfang the Younger's wolf riders."

"Yes you mentioned it," Darkeye replied with a little indifference.

"Then can't you at least let me hold on to that resentm-"

Rogash Wraithstorm's harsh question failed as Darkeye gave him a passive side glance. Rogash towered over his captain by about half a foot, but he'd seen the things Darkeye could do while fighting and it made him hold his tongue.

"That's your choice. I also know that you were convicted of several crimes of brutality against some Forsaken caravan merchants. And that I talked to the head of security in Orgrimmar to let me hire you on as a mercenary instead, for a year without pay. It even took a thousand gold pieces as a bribe for your gaoler's silence. Or do you forget?"

Rogash remained silent. He did owe Darkeye that much at least.

Darkeye arched a long, tufted eyebrow at him indicating that he needed to speak.

"I don't forget my debts captain… but that new plague… I didn't even have enough of my older brother to bury. My mother was heartbroken. She wouldn't stop casting her grief at the spirits in Oshu'gun even months afterward."

"Grief is one thing entirely different from vengeance Rogash. Guard against that. The Warchief Thrall has punished them enough. Now I trust it won't affect your decisions when I leave you in command of the company?"

"Of course not sir. The job is separate to my own feelings. What is necessary will be done no matter what."

Rogash chafed a little at the rebuke, but couldn't help but admit that Darkeye was right.

"Good. Now tell the portal mages to prepare to transport us. Gregor can travel now it seems, and I would prefer to be in Shattrath to meet with the Trade Princes' emissary. Our employers seem to have finally hired us out to someone again."

Rogash gave the elf a salute. Elf. Rogash had asked Darkeye once which faction he belonged to, Blood Elf or High Elf. Darkeye had answered that he belonged to neither. Rogash thought he was only trying to be evasive. It was just like Darkeye to keep secrets.

* * *

Lucas fingered his crozius hanging on his back. He headed to where Gregor was sitting down, nursing his splinted arm.

"Nice acting on your part." Gregor greeted the priest.

"I only agreed because the evidence you showed me was convincing. Very convincing. And after that abrupt quiet in the magical energies that I felt while in the camp, I became sure", Lucas' undead eyes narrowed using half-rotten lids.

"I'm VERY sure that something is up with the captain. I've been sure for months now, which is why I've actually joined up. And finally I received word…" Gregor smirked and tousled his hair with his free arm.

"Word? From whom? Don't tell me you've been listening to craven voices in the dark like a common rogue. Followers of the Light listen only to their hearts, guided by faith and reason. I followed you because you assured me that Captain Darkeye was some follower of the dark powers, and here you confess that-"

Gregor raised a hand to silence the priest.

"Stop your tirade. My source was an informant from the Scarlet Onslaught-"

"What? Those zealots?"

"Yes Lucas. Zealots they might be, but it's their zealotry that would allow them to go this far with gaining information. They confirmed it for me. Darkeye is undead. A Death Knight: one who has gone rogue even before the events at Light's Hope Chapel. He's a great threat. The Light would demand that we destroy such a creature as an unbound Death Knight."

"What about those under Highlord Mograine?" Lucas questioned.

"There's a difference to them and him. Those Death Knights, strange as it might be, have proven that they aren't monsters when they joined the Crusade against Arthas," Gregor stroked his bearded chin. "With his death they were freed. We have no quarrel against them, even if the atrocities they've committed ."

"Then…" Lucas looked up, a worried look of doubt on his wasted brow.

"Yes. He is more dangerous than we first thought. And that axe slung on his back must be his old runeweapon. Do you not feel the tension whenever he fights? It's almost like a Frostsaber being made to use his tufted tail to kill instead of his claws and teeth", Gregor smirked. "How he stands not to use it is a mystery to me, as is how he cloaks his undead essence around us."

Lucas gazed to where the silver-haired elf stood talking and haggling portal passage rates with a teleportation mage, and almost chuckled. The elf had just risen to a whole other level of danger for them without his knowledge, but what was amusing was how low he'd gonefallen from being a Lord of the Scourge.

Lucas Oliver took a back glance at where the Paladin was sitting. "It also means he'll be a whole lot harder to kill. If at all…"

* * *

_*Lohn'Goron = Literally "Hero's Sojourn", obviously I used it as a pun about death._


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: Reticence**

Shattrath buzzed with activity; the Arakkoa haggled with audacious tenacity in their squawking Ravenspeech, the Horde and Alliance soldiers were enjoying the time posturing at each other, the Aldor Defenders busy keeping an eye on them to prevent real scuffles from breaking out.

Darkeye liked it here. It was a place where everyone who was an enemy to the Burning Legion was welcomed. It was a place of refugees; fitting really. He could dimly feel the glow of the Naaru from the inner sancta of the upper spire. It would be anathema to the power within him, but it felt good nonetheless. The Light didn't choose who or what to comfort, a pity that its followers have done that segregation themselves.

His fifty-strong band was taking respective siestas around the city. It was still a few hours before the envoy from the goblins would arrive. Being goblins, it would seem that the mercenary service would be exclusive to Horde clientele, but they'd been secretly hired out to Alliance groups and parties before. Even then, the presence of humans and a couple of draenei in their group, more than spoke for the neutrality of their company even without their choice of clients…

"Captain… Might I trouble you for a moment?" A voice behind him, clearly human, said.

Darkeye turned to find one of the new recruits there. Gregor Ishmael, the young, dashing Paladin met his eyes with not a little embarrassment; Darkeye remembered him: the one who'd been flung unscrupulously by the magnataur.

"Yes Justicar Gregor?" Darkeye inquired back.

"I'm sorry if your expectations weren't met in the battle-" Gregor began in an apologetic voice before Darkeye cut him off by raising his hand.

"Don't apologize. Had the strike not hit you it would have surely hit someone else. Better someone with a strong shield arm than someone without."

"So…" Gregor looked unsure.

"So? So there won't be a problem. That's what your heavy armour is for. It's not cheap, so it better be doing its job. And neither is your pay for that matter, so it's good to see you use that armor. How long until you fully recover the use of your arm?"

"About a day or two left sir. Lucas and the healers at the Hold did a good job. Though I could tell that the troll priests weren't too partial about my being there," Gregor gave an easy smirk.

"You can't exactly fault them either. The Kul Tiras remnant led by the Lady Jaina's esteemed father left their homes in ruins and many of them died in the preliminary attacks. To the ones who were there, a human is a human."

Darkeye gazed with expressionless disinterest at a pair of Ethereals gliding along, trailing their unsubstantial bandages.

"I never said I fault them their grudges captain." Gregor looked up at the taller elf.

"Neither did I. I was simply cautioning you against it. The Light holds no prejudice in those which it touches, in who it heals. This is an old tenet of the Silver Hand if I remember correctly."

A momentary flash of anger flitted across the Paladin's face. "Of… Of course captain. You're right. How foolish of me to forget. Well, I take my leave with your permission." Gregor bowed waist deep and turned.

Darkeye didn't miss the reason for the deep bow. Gregor Ishmael was trying to hide his getting stung by the statement. It might not have been wise to lecture one of his own warriors like he had just done, but Darkeye knew that Gregor would benefit from a little humility. The man simply lacked that side like most humans did. The race of Arathor was too proud for its own good, especially for a relatively young race. They were mostly power-hungry, manipulative, and opportunistic.

Yet, so were the Quel'dorei. In fact, with the final scion of the Sunstriders as an example, they were next to saintly compared to Darkeye and his brethren. Right… He didn't have a right to analyze the humans in that light. Elven mistakes destroyed the world after all. Darkeye shook his head. He wasn't going to apologize. There just some things that leaders didn't do to escape appearing weak.

Darkeye turned toward a sloping climb towards the center spire. A'dal would be there, and with him, Khadgar, Medivh's apprentice who was once thought dead. He would have to avoid both gazes so as not to attract attention. Death Knights were welcome in the City of Light, but not the thing hanging from his back. They had doubtless been informed in some manner, city leaders always were.

Darkeye slipped past a group of Aldor Skyguards who were in battle attire, making rounds of the city by trotting astride their mounts.

It might be a flight of fancy, but Rogash could handle the mercenary rabble for a few hours without him. The orc was a capable aide, if a little harsh on failure.

He spied who he'd been looking for.

Kulldor Runetotem stood near the magical portal, silhouetted against the magical view it permitted of the bustling city.

Darkeye approached.

"So… Off again for another secret traipse? And just before we get assigned to new duties too…" The massive Tauren snorted, fingering a large Wraith Spear on his back. Darkeye admired the hunter's attunement to their surroundings.

"You shouldn't know me so well. It might get you in trouble young one." Darkeye arched an eyebrow while remaining thin-lipped.

The large Tauren grimaced and harrumphed at being called young and whispered, "You should stop calling me that for your own sake. You might expose yourself to those who would see you for who you are… Old One."

Darkeye chuckled softly making a passing succubus following her warlock master look around and giggle. Darkeye winked at her.

The hunter stared at the exchange and massaged his forehead. "So… are we going or not? The Light is all well and good, but Orgrimmar is more to my liking."

"The noise, the stench…" Darkeye smiled and rolled his eyes.

"As if you were really bothered, old man… You, need to go there. I'm just tagging along with you. You know… to watch your back and all that." The Tauren grinned indulgently.

Darkeye gave Kulldor a sidelong glance and slight smile playing on the corners of his mouth. "Hogwash… Let's go."

The two of them passed through the portal, a tingling sensation going through their bodies.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: Remittance**

Roaring orc drunks, troll voodoo rattles, the tear-inducing smell of kodo urine and wolf shit: Orgimmar.

Darkeye walked relatively undisturbed; Kulldor cleared the way for his passage.

They headed into an alleyway that headed directly into the Valley of Wisdom district of the city. A high wall with a small service stair that wound up and over it was there for the peons and Darkeye used it. Kulldor however, used the steps as climbing holds using his massive arms. He barely fit, but was able to nimbly get to the top of the wall before jumping down the other side. They walked out of the alley opposite the one they'd crossed from.

"Right... You sure he'll be here Old One," Kulldor whispered. "This... _contact_ of yours?"

"Yes. It wouldn't be like him to renege on a promise. Besides, he's an orc. Honorable as they come." Darkeye absent-mindedly replied. Darkeye was too intent on the flows of magic. Many were simple wards and alarm magics, designed to keep the houses and inns safe from burglaries.

Darkeye felt Kulldor's large four-fingered hand tap him on the shoulder opposite to where his axe haft protruded. Darkeye turned around just in time to see an aged orc lift his hood, a white beard flowed from the orc's chin.

"*_Bin mog g'thazag cha_," The orc spoke.

"**_Gol'Kosh_," Darkeye replied.

Advisor Eitrigg's eyes remained hooded, an expression of melancholy showing. Kulldor bowed his head in acknowledgement.

"***_Throm-Ka_, Xephyrien the Malicebound." The old orc replied.

"Throm-ka, Advisor Eitrigg."

"The Warchief Thrall wishes to send his regrets that he cannot meet you himself and sent me instead. So on to our business. What have you found so far? Hmmm?" Eitrigg said in a gravelly voice.

"Of course. A Warchief cannot be seen to be consorting with criminals now can he? It is understandable," Darkeye's face showed no emotion. "Our next assignment takes us into the lower coastlines of the Eastern Kingdoms, near the Swamp of Sorrows."

"Trouble within the temple? I thought that Ysera's dragonflight had things under control?"

"Not the Gurubashi trolls. The trouble is with the Naga."

Kulldor started, "Naga? Captain, how would you know? The runner from the mercenary service will only just get there in a few ours or so?"

"Hush Kulldor," Darkeye turned back to the Horde Advisor. "Yes Eitrigg. The Naga. It seems that they're active in those parts again. Our company is mostly made up of members of the Horde so we're leaving for Grom'gol tomorrow."

Eitrigg stroked his beard, "Naga... mmhmmm... Anything to do with the Portal mayhap? The joint forces of the Horde and the Alliance cannot hope to defend against any large assault in the Blasted Lands. Assuming of course that that's where those snakes're headed."

"I'm not sure either, but that's what I was going to investigate anyway. My contacts in the Defias Brotherhood would help us get across the village of Darkshire. The problem is scouting a swamp filled with fel magic from the Portal and the temple of Hakkar," Darkeye's brows knotted together as he rubbed his chin.

"Would your contacts extend to Ysera's dragonflight perhaps?" The old orc's bushy eyebrows rose.

"Not a chance. Few of the Quel'dorei are held in esteem by the dragons of any flight. I am acquainted with Kalecgos from the blue, and Korialstrasz from the red dragonflights respectively and Alexstasza herself has given me audience in Wyrmrest, yet never any from the green flight," Darkeye shook his head, silver hair flying. "Regardless, we cannot expect help from that sector. The growing unrest in the Emerald Dream holds nearly all of their attention."

"Ah. Then you'll act as an unofficial scouting force for the Horde... Do I have your offer correctly in hand old one?"

"Oh aye. Well… More or less. But if I think that this is a greater threat than the Horde alone can handle-" Darkeye began.

"-you may alert and provide information to the Alliance, yes. The Warchief has anticipated that as well" Eitrigg said, before Darkeye could continue.

"Just as I expected of him…It's really too bad either side are still holding old prejudices."

"Bah… very few want to see a truth that doesn't mesh into their perceived world. You're old enough to know that," Eitrigg told Darkeye.

"I am also old enough to know that it isn't impossible either Eitrigg", Darkeye said, pointedly.

Eitrigg simply snorted at the reference to the Highlord Tirion.

Kulldor who had been quiet since Darkeye shushed him touched his shoulder lightly.

"Captain, we'll need to return soon so as not to arouse suspicion."

"Aye. That we do," Darkeye turned back to Eitrigg. "So… I've already sent the missive for the price of cooperation." Darkeye

"And the Warchief has accepted your terms Death Knight," Eitrigg said as he slowly nodded.

Eitrigg raised his cloak's hood again to hide his face. Darkeye turned without a word and started down the path that went back to the Valley of Honor district with Kulldor striding behind him.

"Captain… I didn't know you were so esteemed." Kulldor said with a slightly awed voice.

Darkeye cast another one of his sidelong glances at the tauren. "Esteemed is hardly the word. You know I'm a fugitive, if rather unknown by the masses."

"Yes, and your reputation is well deserved in that regard. But to hold court with the Dragonqueen, among other things…"

"It's not as impressive as it sounds I assure you. Now let's pass through The Drag."

"Wouldn't the Cleft of Shadow be better to avoid… Oh. Of course." The tauren whispered as he understood.

"Right", Darkeye agreed. They walked along, Darkeye keeping close magical watch while Kulldor used his physical senses to keep on guard. Many of Orgrimmar's residents passed them by, paying no heed to them as they walked. As they entered the Drag, the familiar sounds of mercantilism and commerce met them both.

"I can't believe Warchief Thrall sent Adviser Eitrigg himself." The tauren swung a massive head and making his trailing, braided mane sway.

A smile played around Darkeye's lips as he looked through the mass of people.

_

* * *

_

_Words in orcish:_

_*I will protect you_

_**By my axe_

_***Well met_


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: Recruitment**

Darkeye scanned around as they passed the through the Drag; the diminutive orcish peons scurrying to and fro on some errand or other, merchants advertising their wares, goblins drawing a crowd in one corner with their flashy explosions.

In a shaded corner was a podium for an auction. Different from the one in the Valley of Honor, this one sold slaves. Slaves were a custom in the Horde that began with the orcs, and one that many on the Alliance side couldn't fathom or stomach. It served to reinforce the mentality that the peoples of the Horde were savages.

In truth though, it was more of a prison sentence for criminals. Most slaves wore a semi-magical collar that bound them to a certain individual and prevented them from accessing most types of magic if they were capable.

"So who will take this horse-thieving scoundrel of a boy?" announced the orcish auctioneer, presenting a young male orc in shackles and the collar on his neck. Other captured examples which were to be sold were lined up near the back of the platform, while the others languished in cages.

Darkeye saw a couple of goblins and a robed orc gibbering swiftly to the side. Darkeye recognized the proprietors immediately. He approached them as Kulldor noticeably sighed.

"Hello there gentlemen…" Darkeye greeted, his face stony and unmoving.

"Oh! You again?" One of the goblins said. The orc chuckled and the other goblin elbowed him in the knee.

"Yes. I was wondering…"

"…If we had any Alliance prisoners on hand? The answer is: Yes. So go away now and stop placing my business venture in jeopardy, elf." The goblin cut him off, with a little hostility. They'd clashed before, the goblin's annoyed tenacity against Darkeye's passive, indomitable calm.

Kulldor just scratched behind his ear in exasperation. Something the orc again found funny as he chuckled. He'd freed several Alliance civilians in the same manner, paying the Goblin a pittance instead of a better price at auction.

"I'll buy her from you," Darkeye said, indicating a slender draenei girl in one of the cages off the stage. She was trying to cast a spell from the looks of it, making tiny sparks against the wooden parts of her cage. "She just might burn herself along with every other slave for sale that you have, I ought to get a discount."

"She'll never get through that restraining collar…" the goblin overseer's argument sputtered in the face of a bad memory.

"Right, so nine-thousand gold pieces then, or will you try to haggle against my offer again?" Darkeye said with evident superiority in his tone.

The robed orc and the other goblin snickered but were quickly silenced by their employer's glare.

"You keep ripping me off for these Alliance dogs? Why do you care so much anyway? Why not a nice orcish warlock or a troll rogue? It will help the effectiveness of your mercenary corps better with those? I've got one or two-"

Kulldor Runetotem avoided looking any of the three slave traders in the eye. He was too afraid of laughing loudly. The tauren settled for snorting his mirth. The three slavers took it as a threat and almost jumped.

Darkeye closed his eyes, raised a hand and massaged his temple with it, feigning exasperation. "So you're really going to try to haggle again with your most loyal customer?"

The goblin flinched and his two companions grimaced. "Uh… I… No of course not… I was just… tryin' to help… your decision", the goblin's flinch became a grimace of remembered pain.

"My mind is made up. Another shaman or a mage would be nice to have after acquiring Rogash a few years back. And one with enough skill to produce magic enough to try and burn her way out even with the collar on speaks of a little skill."

"But-"

Darkeye finally levelled a glare at the short slave trader, his voice growing a subtle, quiet edge of threat. "Just do it goblin, I'm not in the mood. And who will you sell her to anyway, another brothel in who-knows-where? I know draenei youths and women sell in those areas. I'm not blind."

Darkeye bent his tall frame to whisper in the goblin slaver's ear. "And neither am I dumb. I can always let slip something to the Kor'Kron Elite Guard to have you arrested for such activities. I know the Warchief still permits slave practice, but not the kind you practice."

The goblin gulped and his companions almost visibly edged away from him.

"Alright elf… You can have her for ten-thousand gold pieces", the goblin said as he slowly regained composure.

Kulldor, out of pity, was trying his best to send a telepathic message to the goblin to cut his losses now and just give Darkeye what he wanted. It didn't work. Darkeye might not look his age, but he certainly acted it sometimes. He grew ornery, rambunctious, and cantankerous at the strangest of occasions; at other times he was brooding, reflective, and silent.

"No lower." The goblin almost shrieked, in a final sort of way.

Darkeye nodded in agreement to the goblin's offer, "Alright, but I got to tell you; I don't have that amount on me. Nor do I have the nine-thousand gold pieces I'd primarily offered. I will of course write you a formal invoice for the Goblin Trade Princes and you can ask them for it in person."

The goblin paled, grew a different shade of green, looked to the sides for an avenue of escape, and then almost soiled himself in the space of a second. Kulldor wondered how the elf could stay so deadpan. The goblin's companions' smiles dripped off their faces like kodo spit. The overseer himself looked around at them for support. No help in that quarter.

Finally, the overseer's shoulders sagged a little. "Uh… never mind the invoice, just take her will you? As… as a gesture of my goodwill to the princes of Undermine… and to you of course…"

"For free? Are you sure? Because it really will be alright-" Darkeye was just rubbing salt in the wounds now with his calm and eerily deadpan manner.

"No, please… please… just take the draenei girl…" The goblin trembled.

Kulldor snorted again through his pierced nostrils. The little guy ought to have learnt his lessons well, after his previous dealing with Darkeye. And at that time, he'd had brutish ogres at his sides instead of another goblin slaver and an orcish attendant.

The orc shuffled toward the cages and the draenei girl abruptly stopped trying to cast as the orc was halfway to her own. Darkeye followed alone as Kulldor's height and girth would make a very awkward scene; he stayed watching the street. Also, Kulldor already had the handle of his rifle in hand, ready to aim and fire at the slavers if anything went wrong in the alleyway.

A minute later, Darkeye led the way out followed by the female draenei glaring at the back of his head with loathing and hatred. The slavers followed, the leader goblin wringing his hands.

The robed orc handed Darkeye a slender silver chain to tie through the girl's collar, at its end was a round piece of leather with runic markings that glowed slightly.

"There. Now get away from me…" The goblin stared at the ground between his feet, defeated, and no doubt nursing his ego.

Darkeye complied, making the girl walk in front of them a little ways so as to not let her eavesdrop.

When they were a distance away from the slavers, Kulldor looked down at Darkeye. "Was all of that really necessary old man? We have enough hands around to finish the upcoming assignment right? Now we'll have to apportion more rations to feed another mouth." Kulldor asked when they'd reached the Valley of Honor near the gates of Orgimmar.

"Not really. Call it a hunch. We'll probably need an additional hand around, and the men and a few of the women might have something to look at. The draenei in our group, few as they are, will be okay with it too. They're familiar with Horde customs and have mostly seen that the orcs are no longer their enemies of old."

Kulldor walked along contemplating this but stopped as he almost bumped into the girl who had suddenly stopped.

The draenei girl turned toward them, her tail twitching angrily. "You're animals… All of you!"

Darkeye remained silent as the girl cursed them both in her native tongue, slipping into Common from time to time.

Darkeye inclined his head, making his hair fall to the side of his shoulder and then forcefully dragged the girl sideways to another alley, pushing her inside and making Kulldor barricade the entrance with his broad Tauren frame.

"Animals?" Darkeye inquired. "I'm not the one with the collar and leash, girl."

The draenei glared back. "So you're going to rape me here? Not too glorious is it BLOOD elf?"

"Don't call me that." Darkeye raised his eyebrow and lightly thumbed a rune on the leather leash handle. The draenei arched her back in pain.

"Only beasts would use torture as a means of coercion! Unleash me, and I will show you what honor is!" The draenei shrieked at Darkeye, pulling at her leash. Other residents of Orgrimmar were looking on now, mildly interested.

"Kindly shut. the. fuck. up." Darkeye told her, his mask of calm on his face. Darkeye pushed her into a vacant alley.

"Or what? You'll torture me with this chain again Blood Elf?" The draenei retorted clearly trying to get Darkeye's ire up.

"I thought I instructed you to cease addressing me that way?" Darkeye said, his quiet voice amplified by the walls on either side.

"What? 'Blood Elf'? Coward! I thought you were proud of wearing that name? In honor of your fallen brethren? And yet you deny-"

Darkeye thumbed the rune again, silencing and making the girl kneel; a blue leg with a small, sharp, cloven hoof kicking through a tear in her robes as her tail stiffened behind her like a kicked cat.

"Yes. I am not a Blood Elf, so STOP calling me that.. I won't suck the magic out of you so you needn't worry. All I did was free you from something which could have been worse for you." Darkeye said as-a-matter-of-factly.

"FREED me?" The girl eyed him with incredulity. "That what's this collar then? And why aren't I back in the Exodar with my family?"

"You're not back home because you cost me a lot," Darkeye lied. Kulldor almost sat down to laugh at his captain's utter bald-facedness. "And you owe me that. Therefore you'll be working for me-"

"-As a whore no doubt? Forget THAT! I'll do everything to resist! I'll gouge your eyes out, break your skull with my horns!"

"Please, do try to be less vulgar," Darkeye smiled. "No, I won't have that happen to you. I'm the leader of a mercenary group and…"

Kulldor kept watch as he heard Darkeye make his pitch. The draenei girl was at first incredulously insulted, but her face softened after more explanation.

"So you're hiring me as a Horde mercenary?"

"Well… not exactly," Darkeye said. "As I've explained, we're an independent grouping attached to the goblins. Goblins, who would rather remain playing both sides whilst presenting a Horde-allied façade."

"Then you are merely telling me that you are dishonourable scoundrels betraying your coalition", the draenei girl whispered.

"Well, everyone has a rebellious side. It just so happens that we have other draenei with us: a couple of Vindicator paladins and an Anchorite priest."

The fight almost drained out of the girl then as she briefly pondered the sudden statement. "But why… why would they join…" the girl puzzled, a strand of blue-black hair falling over her face from over her widespread horns.

Darkeye smoothed his hair, "Not everything you hear is real. Many of them are invented through fear and propaganda. Just as many here on this side paint the Alliance in an unpleasant light, it happens on your end as well. We cooperate through common goals and duties to our employers: simple, exciting, and profitable." The elf spread his hands in a gesture to look welcoming.

"You em... employ orcs?" she asked.

"Yes. In fact a great number of my group is composed of orcs. Though we have tauren, trolls, humans, a forsaken undead priest, and the draenei I mentioned- oh and a dwarf shadow priest as well. And so far, we have managed to NOT murder each other every waking hour.", Darkeye told her. "And if you're worried about the orcs, they're changed from before. Trust someone who has seen their demon-induced brutality first-hand."

The draenei girl stood up, though shorter than the elf, the tips of her horns came near to Darkeye's full height. "If I'm being recruited, then why did you have to use the leash and collar? Can't these be taken off so I can actually cast spells now?"

Darkeye looked at her, cast a glance at Kulldor behind him, and looked back at the draenei girl. Darkeye and Kulldor chuckled. "You forget that you owe me for your freedom," Darkeye stated. "So you aren't free until you've served a half-year without pay in our group. Those are the rules."

"What? But-"

"No. The collar stays. Fortunately for you, the leash need not be connected to activate the runes on the handle, so you will be free to walk about and defend yourself if need be… uh?"

"Sharaa…" the girl's face regained a portion of its former dislike for Darkeye.

"Pleasure to meet you Sharaa, welcome to our mercenary band, you'll meet the others shortly when we've returned to Outland." Darkeye was intentionally irritating the girl now, Kulldor noticed – and thought: Mostly because the elf could.

_Gee what an old geezer Darkeye's become... picking on children_, Kulldor thought as he smiled.

"Welcome indeed…"

"The collar stays on so that you will stay the full tenure for the price of freedom. Half a year. If you don't like the life and wish to go home, then you will be free to do so; but only after the half-year is up."

Sharaa glared at Darkeye then rolled her eyes. "Do I have a choice?"

Darkeye turned and Kulldor saw him smiling, a smile not reaching his strangely dark pupils. Kulldor backed away to make room for them to pass.

"Not really," Darkeye said, still smiling, and walked out of the alley leading the new… recruit.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9: By the Horns**

Previously, Kulldor had placed a marker rune for the Diamond of Summoning that Darkeye held. As a result, they were transported, surrounded in green energy orbs to Shattrath itself.

They appeared at the designated place at the floor above the portals to the major Alliance and Horde cities. A few of the Aldor Defenders rushed to see what was about to arrive, and dispersed when they saw only a tall tauren with a menacing halberd and a long rifle, an elf with unglowing eyes with a great axe, and a draenei girl.

The three headed towards the slope downwards and at the gate to the inner sanctum, the orc recruit Tagar sat on the floor with his eyes closed.

Kulldor planted the polearm's arcanite counter weight on the ground as Tagar opened his eyes.

"Captain, the emissary has arrived. Vice-captain Rogash received it for you. It seems we're headed to a swamp in the Eastern Kingdoms; somewhere above the Blasted Lands around the Dark Portal. The client's complaints involved-"

Darkeye quietly cut him off. "Naga. Yes I know." Tagar's eyes widened for a second in surprise, and then his brows knotted in wonder.

Darkeye bowed his head as his hair cascaded down his shoulders. "Don't fault me for having my own spies and informants in my employers' secret employ. It's a good habit to take especially in this business."

"You should get used to it when the captain knows things beforehand. It saves you the effort of wondering how he just saved everyone's asses from death or worse." Kulldor said, walking over and offering his hand to the orc recruit for support in standing.

Tagar took it and pulled himself up, his arcanite reaper scraping along the tiled floor.

"You give me too much credit there Kulldor. Now, let's see if the preparations are underway."

The four of them headed down to the lower city, Sharaa obviously distressed by the presence of Tagar.

* * *

It took all of two days and a night to get the company ready; something that would have extended a week more if Darkeye had not made preparations in advance. Most of the older veterans were used to the efficiency by now. They trusted the elf with their lives because they had to. Hence, Darkeye needed to maintain an illusion of infallibility and omniscience.

Rogash helped smooth out the negotiations for passage from Shattrath to Orgrimmar and once there, for zeppelins to the Eastern Kingdoms. They chartered the zeppelin The Iron Eagle, and another one for their riding mounts; a few of them even brought along their own flying beasts for riding to free up room on the already cramped zeppelins. Though they put down every twelve hours if it was possible, in a couple of days they'd come within sight of the Maelstrom and the Great Sea. During those days, the flight mounts settled for landing on the zeppelins to be fed and sheltered if there were storms. For bathing their owners bade them dive briefly into the ocean below and dry in the sea air.

The storm winds and clouds surrounding the main eye and the sea vortex looked almost still, serene, peaceful. Everyone knew the true nature of the looming clouds. Aside from a few turbulent areas, they passed without harm and soon they sighted land.

Darkeye sat upon his armoured netherdrake, Eldrazaku, and stared deep into the clouds. More than a simple pet, he could hear the drake's thoughts trying to rouse him from his lucid state and finally relented when the drake dipped low into a cloud, as a few of the others in the zeppelins laughed. Darkeye didn't give any indication that he'd noticed, but simply ran a hand through his now damp hair, partly thankful and partly annoyed at the drake. Of course the young drake could have opted to shouting at him in that strangely silky, almost feminine voice of his, but Darkeye simply shrugged as it wasn't really his business if Eldrazaku cared to talk or not.

They finally disembarked at the Horde camp of Grom'gol as they were mostly comprised of Horde races. The guards asked Darkeye several questions, looked at his papers and permits and then let them pass. They did however slightly accost the draenei and humans in his band. It was understandable. The area was rife with incidents of when the Alliance would raid patrols sent by Grom'gol, though no sizeable movements against it have ever occurred.

Once outside the influence of the Horde guards, Darkeye partitioned his forces into a main line which he led atop Eldrazaku, while the others rode on. Some druids transformed and ran alongside. The hunters were paired with warriors and rogues and formed a defensive screen around the main formation, clearing the way throughout the wilderness.

Darkeye was wary of the land around him. It was a known region of pirate activity from the south in Booty Bay. Many would not try to hinder a group so large, but there were the odd few.

Darkeye originally wanted to make land there, but the time he'd saved in preparing his troops in Shattrath would have been wasted had they taken a ship to the neutral port.

After a day or two of riding, they entered the Duskwood.

* * *

Many hunters and rogues had just the right amount of paranoia to develop a mental silent alarm. And it was because of this that Kulldor heard the commotion after he felt that alarm trip. The tauren raised himself off the deer tracks he'd been looking at as Ril'zin, the Darkspear rogue he'd been paired with looked at him, both knowing something was wrong. They were both on the way back when they heard swords ringing out of scabbards and saw magical fires light up the perpetual gloom of Duskwood.

Inhuman howls and growling could be heard as well. Kulldor and Ril'zin passed through the forest from the shadow of one tree to the next, marking the many pawbeats that hit the forest floor.

Kulldor gave the order to Ril'zin to stay cloaked as he unbelted his rifle – a widebarrel flintlock - and loaded the powder charge and a large shatter round that he'd made during the idyllic flight on the zeppelins.

"Let's cut through that underbrush Ril'zin, what do you say?"

"Ready when you are, mon."

The reddish runes of flame and destruction lit up on the barrel spigot as he cocked the firearm.

In the darkness several pairs of glowing eyes and slavering mouths observed the two of them.

* * *

Darkeye had to admit that the ambush was well-laid. He'd only had enough time to command the nearest groups of his warriors. It was a good thing that many of the company veterans were nearby. Many were already fighting the beasts – for beasts these were, and not the affliction that invaded Gilneas' poor townsfolk – who slashed at them with claws.

Darkeye looked back into his tent seeing Sharaa cowering. She must feel so powerless with the collar on. Darkeye decided that she'd begin duties under Rogash, shaman like herself; provided she wasn't carried off by the beasts. He couldn't risk her in a battle without support either, so she couldn't be freed. At least the collar would allow him to locate her if a need arose. Rogash on the other hand, had a magical mail hauberk and several element-hallowed weapons; not to mention his planted totems. Sharaa had her possessions stripped from her, and except for a change of clothes that some of the female trolls had lent her, she was weaponless.

Darkeye saw Rogash and a tauren druid in his bear aspect fighting off a dozen of the rogue worgen by themselves.

Eldrazaku gleefully cantered beside Darkeye, his translucent wings folded. A worgen with a foaming maw charged at the pair of them. The netherdrake swung his armoured tail and sent it into a lit bonfire, setting its fur alight as it tumbled away with a broken spine. Then the netherdrake opened his maw and shot a ball of dark energy that created a clean hole straight through another of the mindless creatures.

Rogash cast a bloodlust spell, and it washed over the drake and the former elf.

Darkeye felt another one of the dark pulls on his soul; malicious, cunning, yet begging and imploring at the same time. Darkeye shrugged it off. Shadowmourne remained wrapped and hung on his back. Darkeye unsheathed his claymore and his dagger.

"What say you Old One? Can I make these petty beasts bleed and howl their deathwails?" the netherdrake asked him.

Darkeye nodded and grinned as Eldrazaku roared and took to the sky.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10: Defiant**

Rogash diverted his attention to Darkeye standing with a blonde-haired human woman. Darkeye had called her "Marisa" with a hint of a little affection. Some of the crew speculated and whispered in their tents and around fires. All Rogash knew was that she was their Defias contact. Whoever she was to the captain didn't matter as long as she could guarantee their passage through Alliance lands secretly.

Many of the Alliance mercs were indignant but knew the cooperation was necessary. And after the worgen attack on their camp a week ago, everyone was willing to take measures in preventing another from happening. Going along to get along; that's what they were doing.

"Is this all we're doing, staring at Darkeye?" A petulant voice said.

"Silence and continue your work. And that's **CAPTAIN** Darkeye to you Sharaa," Rogash chastised her.

She pouted and glared at the rock carving she was imbuing. "How can I do this properly without a channel, or without full access to the voices of the elements?"

There it was again. The collar. It wasn't really impeding her in any way, but she obviously hated it. Heck he hated the collar too when Darkeye freed him from prison. He wasn't to become a slave but being a shaman the guards needed something to corral his powers. "I managed the entire twleve months with it on, and so can you."

"A year?"

"Yes. Meaning your six months is a sad trifle next to what mine was."

"What about a weapon then, or even some armor?"

"As I said before, you will be focusing on healing totems until we are able to assign funds to purchase your own battledress and casting implements. Who knows, we just might find you something among the Naga and their loot?" Rogash pulled on his forked beard. The girl had at first been afraid of him. No surprise, with what the old Horde had done on Draenor.

"Hmph… I told you I'm more used to combat spells…" Sharaa scowled.

He waved a hand in indifference. "You already told me. You'll be assigned that after we get you some new stuff. For now, concentrate on that totem you're crafting." Rogash pointed at the floating rock marked with the draenei runes glowing with power.

Sharaa turned away and did as was told.

In the meantime the human woman had entered Darkeye's tent with the captain in tow. There was a faint magelight glow from inside, silhouetting two seated figures.

Rogash sided with the humans on this matter. He didn't like the criminals of Defias any more than they did, but conceded the point. He did however lifted the clasp on the cold saronite of his Keening Banshee Blade. He had a feeling he would be needing it again sooner than he expected.

The draenei girl looked at the orc again. "What is he anyway? He denied being a Blood Elf when he 'acquired' me, and he also denied being a High Elf while we were in his tent – giving me my duties."

Rogash snorted. "Everyone here has probably asked that once or twice; that, and why there are no other elves of any nature in our group. In fact, a few did apply but he asked me to rebuff them.

"Truth is though; no one knows what Captain Darkeye is except that he's an elf, or at least LOOKS like one" Rogash told her, wagging a stubby, clawed finger at her. "But know this: we trust him."

* * *

Ril'zin scouted around the area. He and Kulldor had cut an unseen swath through the attackers and freed up a group of orcish company members for a counter attack. Just enough to open a way for a wedge of veterans, led by the captain himself atop his netherdrake, to push through with a mounted charge through the encircling ambushers.

The troll could swear that the tauren hunter could talk telepathically with the captain. Ril'zin had seen it happen several times before; Darkeye responding to a movement that he hadn't planned and seemed totally impromptu, usually done by Rogash Wraithstorm or Kulldor Runetotem. Ril'zin mentally shrugged. Maybe Darkeye was just a good enough commander. After all, he'd been the captain when Ril'zin himself had come and signed up. The gold from the mercenary work was good, if not entirely honest.

The blood elf amazed him, he had to admit. Usually the fel magic that they used to sate themselves from their magic addiction served as a repellent to tauren and night elves. And yet, here was Kulldor and another couple of tauren druids; and Ril'zin distinctly remembered Darkeye having taken them through the night elven borders by way of a druid and ranger escort. Though the guards were there for the dual purpose of making sure that such a group not cause trouble, it was amazing to be let free through Alliance lands without undue hostility.

The troll touched his tusks and flicked away a piece of dirt from the tip.

They were ordered to guard from anything hostile coming from the inside of the camp while the hunters were situated in the outer ring. Everyone else was on guard, especially the third of the company composed of humans, draenei, and the single dwarf. It was well-known that the Defias Brotherhood wanted to destroy the Human Kingdom of Stormwind.

Ril'zin continued on his encircling patrol route around the camp, mindful of the other rogues and hunters who were doing the same.

* * *

The girl trembled. Her fear, musty and pungent rose from her body in puffs in time with her breaths. And yet, under all of that musk, another scent lingered. It was the same scent as ten years ago. The very same, only buried under all the adult brusqueness and all of the other wilderness smells. After all, Duskwood was far from healthy and hale as woods went. The trees rotted from within, affected – scarred - by the passage of the Scourge, and the magics that caused the worgen to arrive in Azeroth.

Darkeye felt her hand reach out, tentatively. Darkeye took it into his. It was calloused and rough, the hand of a life lived in the wilderness. He felt a faint scar, ridge up from the center of her palm to the outer edge of her hand. A tough life as an outlaw probably, but he knew her, before she even knew what a sword or dagger was.

"Crest…"

"That's not my name anymore child. My men call me Darkeye."

"I'm not one of your men Old One… My father called you his friend… And I once called you 'Crest'."

Darkeye smiled. The girl he once bounced on his knee, ten odd years ago, shifted her weight to one leg. She smelled of sweat, arcane magic, old booze, old jizz, and dried blood. All of the aromas were faint.

"And that time is past… We've grown older little one, grown greyer and more distrustful."

"You don't trust me?" Marisa asked.

"If I didn't do you think I'd have sent you my missive?"

Marisa laughed an honest but hysterical sounding laugh. "In your missive, you signed it as '_Crest_'. And now you deny the name you once gave for my family to address you by."

Darkeye smiled. It somehow seemed laughable that a grown human girl would want to call him a name he'd long discarded. The name existed simply because her father, a lumberjack who had lived near old Stratholme used it to introduce Darkeye to his daughter; because it the name that the elf who was Xephyrien, Malicebound, and Darkeye had given him to use.

It made Darkeye feel all the more his age. Death Knights were messengers, deliverers of Death, and so were untouched by it. Oh they could die by the blade, but natural death was beyond any of them. Sickness, age, the harsh winters of the frozen north; doubtless it would slow them somewhat, but in the end it meant little. It also made Darkeye feel haunted by the lack of sentience and sapience in his existence.

"That is neither here nor there, because I am now Darkeye, the mercenary captain. As you are now one of the leading figures of the Defias Brotherhood."

She bowed her blonde head. She was young; only in her late twenties or so, and already on the hierarchy of this outlaw band. He smelled a mediocre amount of arcane magic in her, probably been trying to practice being a mage. But life in the wilderness usually gives you only what you need and her repertoire probably consisted of simple spells.

"So, now what do you need from me?" Marisa asked.

"I was hoping to call in an old favor…"


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11: Through the Rubble**

The Lord Malicebound treaded the ground. It was filled with fel energies, and most surprisingly, Light energies. The demons of the Burning Legion freely walked the halls, and remnants of the Scourge had been driven off into the Dead Scar.

Faint memories, like slivers of glass, like splintery thorns pierced his dead mind. Images of children and old elves dying, withering away like dried plants, the Sunwell glowing in a hellish light which was no better than darkness, a kind of anti-light; the Death Knight brushed these away. Old memories weren't why he was here. He strode up to the crumbling ruins, seeing finally what the fool of a *boy had wrought. Kael'Thas had decided to destroy the corrupted Sunwell, and the land around it showed the effects easily.

The old Sunwell was dead. It wasn't entirely sure where the Light energies emanated from. The exact location eluded his senses; somewhere near the old Magister's Terrace probably. No matter, to scout here wasn't his intention; rather, it was to collect something of his. So short a time, to his perception, was still enough for it to have been looted, yet somehow he doubted it.

There were stains and cracks in the old paving stones. Marble, granite, and red basalt gave way to blight-encrusted dirt. Malicebound didn't care. He needed a core for his new rune weapon. And for that, he needed a corruptible core; a Light-infused weapon was needed.

Malicebound didn't know why he needed his old blade, but it seemed right to him. It seemed as if, it would be easier to infuse his own weapon with his own dark energies at the runeforges in Icecrown.

The crumbling stone of the once glorious fount soon came into sight. Malicebound remembered falling here and breaking his back, before being brought to Northrend. His blade had to be here. He could sense it.

He saw old and desiccated corpses, remains of the old battle. Blood-encrusted High Elven armor, a Farstrider's bow, the string having been cut and frayed by time, large bones of defeated Frost Wyrm's, and the stony exoskeletons of gargoyles littered the ground. It seemed as if the battle had only just ended. The corruption had drawn other beings; invisible, clammy hands caressed his leg greaves, old ghosts who'd been left here. Death was unafraid of death.

Malicebound kicked a plated boot through the debris, roughly where he had fallen. His ghoul companions keeping guard around him, babbling incoherently to one another in the language of those who can no longer be saved. Flotsam and jetsam clattered away, a cracked elven skull still in a helmet, rattled around inside its shell like a pair of odd gambler's dice.

He looked around, trying to feel its now repellent aura, trying to feel a trace of its old magic. His eyes flashed a dull blue. He stepped onto a leather sheath and kicked it away as well. He noted how strange he would have looked, rooting through the refuse like a common gnoll or a repugnant kobold.

He picked up the rusted helmet of a magical guardian, one of the siege golems, looked it over and threw it away. He watched it hit and clang as it bounced, his eyes not leaving it as it rolled before coming to a stop with a dull ring. It stopped right beside a sky blue hilt. Despite a shudder of malefic disdain, Malicebound, who was once Xephyrien the Mourner, smiled in a dark and evil satisfaction as he strode up to take his old sword.

* * *

Malicebound, held the newly reforged greataxe. Inscribed already with the runes of death, destruction, and decay, it was a shadow of what it could become, it was incomplete still.

It lacked the triune powers of a Death Knight. He's subdued the light-bound powers of his old saber before shattering the blade. The pieces were remade into the axe he now wielded, but it was still far from finished.

He had felt a brief tremor of regret laced with nostalgia upon wielding the unhallowed hammer to shatter his old blade. But it was soon eclipsed by elation so great that he almost smote it a strike so overpowered that had he not caught himself in time he was sure he would have cloven the runed anvil in two, as indicated by the large shear at the place that he hit.

Looking back to that, Malicebound found it strange. A Death Knight was usually more controlled. He had then needed to shift to another anvil because of the wound he'd inflicted on the one he'd been about to use.

He didn't know why he wanted a different style of weapon. Necromundis had been a large zweihander with a handle almost twice as long as usual, and his old blade – though he called it a saber – was more of a one-handed falchion. He ended up with a greataxe. He designed his new weapon to contain elements of the Lich King's awesome power. It even had the trademark demon's skull perpendicular to its eye where the haft anchored the blade.

In its current state it was without power and was simply a sharp blade of Saronite and pieces of the shattered Throne. It even reeked of the Holy Light at this point, from the shards of his saber that had been forged into it, and was of no use in the hands of a Death Knight of the Scourge.

He needed the Unholy powers coursing through it, he needed the Cold madness of the land of Northrend, and he needed a sacrifice of Blood, but above all, he needed angry, hateful souls for the blade to drink and be glutted with.

He set upon his task with a drive he hadn't known in long centuries, nor in the eleven millennia he'd been alive. He realized that the souls were already present. In and around the forges were repositories of captured souls to fuel the dark magics of the Death Knight smithies, or to infuse into the corpse husks to make the grunts and fodder of the armies of the Scourge.

He was a loyal disciple of the Lich King; one of the Lords of the Undead Scourge was denied nothing of the resources at its disposal.

The axe gorged itself, slowly steeping in a vessel that comprised of the eye socket of an ancient blue wyrm, filled to the brim with soul essences. He could feel the weapon scream in ecstasy within his tortured soul. A soul that was freed from the confines of Necromundis, yet still a slave to the Lich King.

Lord Malicebound could hear the faint cries of anguish as it devoured the souls, growing stronger. The greataxe howled in sheer gluttony as the souls drained into it screamed in rage at their defilement. Malicebound gloried in his soon to be completed weapon. His soul would be bound by it again, just another meal.

It had been a month since he had returned from the dead remains of the Sunwell. The Lich King had inspected his work once through his own eyes, interrogating him on its purpose, and praising his imitation of the hallowed blade, Frostmourne.

Malicebound felt pride then despite the unfinished nature of the blade, his skill having been considered noteworthy by his master.

Other members of the Scourge had begun to take notice as well, though only in passing. The Lich King's commands took precedence over any gawking done and many turned away to fulfil their tasks.

A booming regular beat could be heard at regular intervals

Malicebound turned his tall frame and looked skyward, his cloak's cowl slipping off his head making his hair flutter in the icy winds of the Ebon Hold, which had still to be powered for flight to its deadly purpose. He was here to search for a means to infuse the greataxe with the three powers, thinking that maybe some of the runesmiths had any idea. They had none that he hadn't considered for himself already and as he went out of the unfinished necropolis he saw an answer.

A flight of three frost wyrms bellowing their stentorian roars through the bleak and sunless skies swept overhead, their wingbeats bludgeoning the thin air.

Malicebound, later to be known as Crest the knight-errant, and Darkeye the mercenary captain, smiled in a wicked sort of glee.

* * *

* _He's talking about Kael'Thas here, if you haven't figured it out. Not Arthas. _


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12: Fire, Blood, and Frost**

Gyragos roared and swatted a massive bone claw at the comparatively tiny Death Knight. Their duel had gone for most of the morning, and so far the bone dragon was winning. Ice coated the tiny elf's saronite hauberk yet still he could sustain his irksome battle. What insanity had driven the death knight to this pass the mighty husk of a dragon did not care to know.

The wyrm lunged with its long neck catching a hold of the axe in its massive teeth. Malicebound was taken with it, still holding tightly to the axe haft. Thinking quickly, he pulled his legs up to try and pull the axe out of the wyrm's giant maw.

It only served to enrage Gyragos further and the mighty undead dragon tossed his neck while letting go of the weapon from between its teeth. Malicebound was flung high but was saved a rough landing by the softened frost of the ground. He rolled as a giant clawed foot descended and tried to pulp him into the ground of Northrend.

Quickly he stood, ducking a swing of the massive tail. He needed an opening. So far, staying inside the dragon's guard had been key. When the wyrm flew to hurl icy meteors at him he avoided them deftly due to their relatively slow speed.

Another swing of the tail, this time grazing the ground, came for him. Malicebound dove high enough to avoid it and rolled, stopping when he was upright again. Malicebound ran straight underneath the wyrm and made as if to stab the axe through the pulsing crystal that served as the frost wyrm's heart.

Gyragos, surprised at what in his mind was such audacious stupidity, raised his massive, bony frame and decided to ascend. He leaped, and with a monstrous wingbeat rose off the ground.

Unknown to the undead dragon, Malicebound was not aiming for the wyrm's heart. He ran straight until he reached the massive tail and turning the axe head, used the beak opposite the blade as a climbing implement, anchoring it in between the giant tail vertebra.

Gyragos didn't feel him immediately. The massive wyrm circled as it searched the ground for its quarry when it felt saronite-shod feet on the bones of its massive hip joint. Gyragos corkscrewed in the air and if it had not been for his quick reaction, Malicebound would have fallen off, unceremoniously hitting the ground, broken in defeat. As it was, Malicebound clung on, the unfinished axe secured to his back.

Malicebound worked his hands, and using the massive ribs as climbing rungs, he slowly made progress, stopping every so often when the massive wyrm tried to dislodge him. And once, the wyrm had tried to rake him off using the walls of Icecrown itself, flying low and inverted' scraping its back on the serrated walls. Whatever the massive frost wyrm did, Malicebound endured. Slowly he made progress until he was directly above the pulsating ice crystal.

Malicebound swung the greataxe as hard as he could through the massive ribs and shattered it, howling in victory while the wyrm roared in mortal pain as the frost magics keeping it alive drained into the weapon.

Slowly the two of them fell towards the ground, a wreck of bones and old sinew, and a half-mad elven Death Knight clutching an axe in hand.

* * *

Leathery wings fluttered and were stilled as a crackle of newly formed ice imprisoned them.

"N-NO! Don't Do this! I… WE! WE are BOTH in His eternal Service! We are both changed by the Lich King!"

A gauntleted fist hit her across the mouth drawing blood from her lips and battering away conscious thought.

Malicebound sneered wickedly. Frost crackled off his thin moustache as he did so.

"And yet, I do not hear any protest from the Lord of the Dead. I think he is displeased with you so far, puny Darkfallen whore. He approves of my slaying of Gyragos, a child of Sindragosa herself, what are you next to his might you weakling slattern?" Malicebound shook her dazed form and hit her again, a saronite gauntlet grasping the thin neck of the undead elf.

He'd known this… thing's queen, Lana'thel in Quel'thalas for a brief time. A beautiful youth, he'd seen her in recent times, giving no indication that she knew him. The girl had once been among the Blood Elves, his kin, along with each and every one of their ilk. Malicebound didn't care.

The ice held both her arms in place, and Malicebound's aura prevented her from whispering any useless spells. Her vampirism did not work on him; would not work, on his frozen heart, his dead blood.

He tore her clothing by pulling at her collar, slightly hampered by the massive crystal that held her in place. Her head hung down, dazed from the punch, her wasted breasts heaved as she tried to breathe, the ice stoppering the expansion of her lungs.

"Suck in the cold air of the Frozen North little whore. Yes. Just like that. Breathe it in. It is your last." Malice bound raised the axe as the Darkfallen San'layn regained her senses.

"NO! NO DON'T! STO-"

The axe hewed the winged elf in twain from bare neck to naked groin so much like a log for firewood. Her leathery wings extended in an uncontrolled, shocked rigor. Her arms had also broken free because the ice holding her had mostly shattered during the obliterating strike that Malicebound had dealt. They flailed independent of each other as she fell, her knees having finally bent from her unrestrained weight, and the twin halves of the body fell spurting generous amounts of her blood.

Malicebound raised the axe a second time and buried it into the crimson snow in between the two halves of the female form. He laughed an insane laugh as the snow whitened once more as the blood drained into the cleft occupied by the axe blade, the incomplete Shadowmourne gorging itself full of the vital liquid.

Malicebound dabbed at a drop of her blood from his cheek and licked it off his finger. The Death Knight laughed until he almost fell over, a laugh full of genuine mirth, but laced with real insanity.

* * *

-_as the mercenaries are attacked by wild worgen_-

The high elf flexed his fingers, seeming to try and fit for new gloves even when he was stark naked. He was unused to this shape yet, but if he were to be successful in his assignment he would need to be as quick and deadly in this form as he was in his true form.

The lack of wings was an issue that he didn't really like too much either. He didn't know how his sire could manage their loss for such long periods. Of course all the magical power of his birthright still coursed through him, but he had still refrained from changing shape to avoid the flightlessness. He loved the air and could outmatch others of his kind in flight easily even when he had been young.

The high elf took long, loping strides out of the frigid pool in which he bathed, warmed by his magically fired blood.

After sunning himself like he had been won't to do in his true form, he dressed in a solemn manner, though with a twinge of contempt for the garments. It was another concept he felt alien to. Clothes. He just didn't understand the appeal in such a fragile form.

He picked up the magical sword that he had been provided. He felt the intense hum of the short blade in his hand. It had been granted a sliver of the Heart of Magic; claimed by his queen the Life-Binder from the body of Malygos the Lord of Magic, it was a powerful gift and he was honoured by it. He sent a tiny pulse of his power through it and saw the mana ignite in a flash of red-gold flame from the hilt to the tip of the blade. He extinguished the blaze.

The elven mage, Variel stood up and began his long trek to the Violet Citadel for his predicted meeting with his sire, known in the Kirin Tor as the Archmage Krasus. He was to receive detailed instructions there about his duties

He laughed as he leaped up from a wide hole in the snow that he'd stepped into, aware that his massive claw had made it a few hours earlier before he'd changed from his real body and his real name… Varielstrasz.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13: Snake Venom**

Variel used his magic to make a teleportation circle and concentrated on the statue of Antonidas that he'd seen here once before as a dragon. A crackle of magical energies later and he was standing in front of it. Few people even looked up from their activities; magical comings and goings was a part of life here, no more special than some gnome blowing himself up on some ill-advised mechanical experiment.

Variel dug into his belt pack, pulling out the last piece of his spiced jerky and chewed on it, journey provisions since he'd begun his trek. It was a strangely coarse action for a high elf to do, but Variel didn't care, he was a pragmatic sort, even by red dragon standards. It was only through flying and his creative spellwork that he let another side of himself loose.

He walked on, the reddish strip of fragrant meat jutting out from between his lips like a strange and flat cigar.

He almost got hit by a stray prank spell cast by some gnome. Ht unlucky Gilnean worgen who got hit turned into a sheep that meandered around for a few seconds before emitting a small cloud of smoke revealing the now very disoriented demi-human. People laughed in a good-natured way at this and soon the worgen was swept off into the nearest tavern to nurse his wounded pride.

By the time he'd finished the jerky he arrived at the entrance of the Violet Hold.

He stepped inside the wide hall, past the magicians in the lower levels, and prepared to ascend the magical sanctum.

* * *

Darkeye surveyed the swamp from the hill they were camped on. Everyone was on edge. A stink of swamp matter and miasma was wafted over by the fog that settled in that previous evening and refused to leave even with the sun's heat.

The mages, shamans, hunters, and rogues had scouted ahead. The rogues and hunters on foot had ventured in, while the mages and shamans scrying into the bogs and pools of the swamp. This was going to be a difficult affair for the entire company to be involved in so Darkeye had decided on a small scouting force led by Kulldor to pave the way.

They had left a couple of hours ago and still no word. A shaman had glimpsed them passing his magical sight half an hour past, which if Darkeye was correct in assuming, the party of hunters and rogues were spiralling in toward the center of the swamp and avoiding the Hakkari temple. The hard part was only about to begin.

The blue wolf spirit that Kulldor had tamed strode behind him, crackling with ghostly energy.

Kulldor cradled his rifle, the long Wraith Spear attached to his back. The group made minimal noise and only the tauren hunters like him had any semblance of trouble, their hooves sinking into the thick mud. Kulldor thought of Sharaa and the other draenei. Their narrower hooves would make this terrain a real party of them.

A near-transparent form stopped in front of him, and Kulldor sopped as well. Gwendolyn Valtos, a hooded human rogue looked behind her ached back at him in slight apology, conveying the emotion without speaking. They both continued on.

Kulldor heard a rasping croak, mimicry of a crocolisk, and recognized the signal from Ril'zin. He looked to his left quadrant and spied his semi-transparent form atop a large branch. The troll was holding aloft a long string of beads and shells. With his sharp eyes, Kulldor saw that the sinew had yet to show any fraying. They had found evidence of recent naga presence.

Kulldor strode up near to a tree and rapped the butt of his rifle into the wood as softly as he could, three times. Three nearly transparent figures stopped their stride. Another three, almost noiselessly got off the tree branches that they were on and fell to the ground. Six other hunters stopped, giving silent orders to divergent beast pets.

With quick and practiced hand gestures, he ordered the hunters to pair up with the rogues and spread in five groups. Two pairs were to stay on the temporary sand bar to receive and send word to the main camp. Kulldor coordinated the scouting groups himself while he ordered Ril'zin to stay and send the message.

Kulldor had paired himself with Gwendolyn, her hood and bandana masking her mouth and much of her face. They moved in a cover rotation. One of them would watch for any hostile movements providing overwatch in cover as the other moved to another place of cover. For Kulldor's large size it was usually a tall tree. Gwendolyn had her Twirling Blades out and Kulldor continued his use of his rifle. Kulldor's spirit pet stalked low to the ground, dark blue fur rippling with sparks.

* * *

Ril'zin accompanied Zal'zakk his brother, a hunter like Kulldor. His massive, hunched frame indicated his Dire heritage. Ril'zin was proud of his brother's prowess as a hunter, if finding his size an unfair advantage when they sometimes got into argument. He was also pleased to note that he was Zal'zakk's defender in times when the tribe had tried to outcast him.

Zal'zakk strode on, his large bow was in his three-digit hands, a large whale tusk halberd on his back, and in his other hand was a flash arrow of gnomish make. Aimed skyward roughly in the main camp's direction, it was the signal Captain Darkeye and the main force were waiting for.

Ril'zin nodded and his brother realsed the arrow, just as a sickly green, coral encrusted arrow pierced his throat. Ril'zin, the other orc rogue and hunter pair ducked immediately. Zal'zakk fell backwards like a tree to the ground clutching his throat, blood spurting weakly through his dark blue hands, as he gurgled. Ril'zin pulled his wounded brother sideways with effort and rolled him over so that he faced the ground. It was to prevent him from drowning in his own blood.

Zal'zakk needed the arrow out before their healing ability could staunch the wound but the arrow was in a precarious place and Ril'zin dared not pull it out. He needed the paladins and priests or any of the druids to help heal Zal. His brother' devilsaur growled softly and crouched beside him, taking no interest in the fight, sorrowfully regarding its fallen master.

Arrows tipped with poison whistled above their heads, some striking the trees. The hunter's large bear roared in pain as several projectiles punched into its hide, the others simply bounced off the matter fur.

The orc hunter and rogue fitted bolts into their respective crossbows, and Ril'zin unsheathed his own Rising Sun glaives and readied his throwing arm to avenge his brother. His other hand fingered his two Razorscale Talons.

"*Alana be'lendorrr!"

"**Ash'thero sssanguine!"

Through the trees hissing and corrupted Darnassian - Nazja - could be heard, along with rippling fins and armor scales. The naga had found them.

* * *

Tagar crouched low whilst unslinging his twin arcanite reapers. He'd slipped out of the camp in pursuit of the scouting party because he resented the fact that an elf was in command of the group. Not that he felt like disobeying actual commands when they were important and made with good judgement, but that fetid aroma drove everyone insane and staying in a camp with that foul air? No thanks.

He reasoned that if the swamp smelled much the same, and between doing something and nothing, he chose to do something with his time.

There were long snaking marks in the mud here. Tagar stood up. He knew roughly what the naga serpents looked like and came to assume that it was the treil they'd left. The grooves in the mud left the wet ground and disappeared into the water. Tagar followed in the direction.

His foot sank into a deep pool and he grabbed at a tree. Pulling himself up and cursing he held on to the tree when a flash lit up in the sky. Tagar trailed the arrow's origin and saw that it was also where the snake-prints were headed.

Tagar stopped. He heard a loud hissing and a splash. Tagar turned to find a pack of snap dragons cutting through the bogs and pools, running at him and slavering a green fluid from their maws.

Tagar gripped tighter on his weapons and shouted, "LOK'TAR OGAR!"

* * *

* and ** -untranslated naga battle cries circa Warcraft 3: The Frozen Throne and Burning Crusade


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14: Victory or Death**

Darkeye saw the bright arching flash.

Darkeye put two fingers in his mouth and whistled aloud. Mercenaries, already armed and clad for battle, mounted steeds and beasts, the air rang with the unsheathing of weapons. The battle was about to begin it seemed. Darkeye counted on relatively few opponents, so this had to be a lightning assault. He felt a short pulse of malicious hunger from Shadowmourne through the spellcloth. Darkeye ignored it, raised his black-edged claymore its blue jeweled pommel biting into his arm, the sun glinted off the red carved patterns and carvings on the bevelled edges.

Darkeye gave the command to move forward and spurred Eldrazaku into a running gallop, as the entire company followed him.

Kulldor examined the dead murloc. A barb protruded from its side. The protruding tip looked broken and the thing itself was hollow. Poison barbs. Kulldor nodded at Gwendolyn to be wary, but she missed the gesturing order. Her eyes were focused on something farther down the Misty Reed Strand, towards the southern end.

Kulldor looked in the direction and saw what she had been looking at. A small outpost was in that direction. There were orcs strewn about. Kulldor understood. The swampy smell had masked it before when he should have easily recognized the stench. A group of crocolisks had been splashing about when they passed and now the reason was all too evident. One of the crocolisks did a death roll and tore off a large chunk.

* * *

Kulldor looked away as Gwendolyn lifted her bandana and dry vomited to his side.

Kulldor strode forward, heedless. The crocolisks were feeding and were now little threat. Gwendolyn hesitantly followed him.

Kulldor checked an orc body clad in leathers, pincushioned with feathered arrows. The orc's arms were limply clutching a pair of daggers.

"Looks like that watch tower you wanted to build here would have to wait huh Tok'Kar? Maybe if they'd put it up sooner you'd still be alive…" Kulldor closed the orc's eyes with two thick fingers. And, then a light flashed through the trees.

Kulldor looked up and Gwendolyn said, "They've found the naga!"

* * *

Krasus paced. The messenger had arrived bearing a message. Sporadic naga attacks had been reported in many of the coastal towns. Even in the Alliance port town of Valgarde there was an attack. It was fortuitious that there was a ship full of newly arrived adventurers that helped turn the creatures away.

Auberdine harbour however was not as lucky. They were rebuilding now, but a couple of buildings had burned down, and not a few people had died.

"It makes a nice argument for the recently-departed Lord Malygos' insane endeavour does it not?"

Krasus brow knotted. "Funny. Whose side are you on anyway Variel?" The young dragon evidently didn't like being in a different shape but it was required for what he was supposed to do in the coming days. Strange that it gave him a drier sense of humor than he'd already had.

"Our side, my sire; which is to say my own and yours. I was merely pointing out that had the night elves of old not tampered with magic, causing the Sundering and become the Naga…" Variel shrugged as if it explained everything.

"Of all the… It's not as simple as that. We should give thought to WHY the Naga are suddenly so active with Illidan dead-"

"-And why the attacks seemed to be coordinated to occur at near the same time?" Variel said raising an eyebrow.

Krasus actually grinned this time, his spiked collar lending him a slightly intimidating air. The young dragon might be a pragmatist but his mind was sharp. Right now, Krasus might say that Variel was more suited to a priest or paladin role and not a mage.

"Yes. That. Regarding your departure however, I suggest you take stock of all your supplies before you leave on this assignment. You are a representative of the Kirin Tor and the red dragonflight and even though this venture is far from official business, it wouldn't do well to shift out of your current elven form to travel or hunt as we are won't to do."

"As I have been informed Lord Krasus." Variel bowed, dropping his gaze.

"You may go. Mention to no one what we've discussed here except to who you're supposed to assist. The general public must be kept from such knowledge as long as we still have a chance of controlling the situation. Ask HIM to head to Darnassus."

The eavesdropper wards vanished from the wall with a hum, the light suffusing the door fading in relation. The people walking outside could be heard as the magic wore off.

Variel raised the hood of his Bloodmage's Regalia and exited, his mage blade bleeding arcane light.

* * *

Tagar's left arm shivered and shook from the venom, hardly gripping his axe. There was only one of the damnable beasts left and he was sure that he'd be able to dispatch this lone creature. The wound on its hind leg was slowing it down considerably with a limp that fouled its fluid gait.

Tagar gave a roar and charged, the snap dragon spat more venom globules while doing the same. Tagar let them hit the stylized skull on the axe cheek and jumped up.

The snap dragon skidded to a stop and looked skyward just in time to catch the arcanite reaper full in the face as Tagar had thrown it downwards. The snap dragon yelped and fell limply where it stood. Tagar, landing on his paralyzed arm, rolled painfully to avoid damaging himself even more. Tagar felt the venom seeping in, making more of his muscles feel lethargic, and with the bloody carcasses next to him, it was reasonable to note the crocolisks might find him sooner rather than later.

Tagar forced himself to sit up and grabbed a buttress root for support. He shakily snatched up his pack and dug out a small potion skin of druidic brew. Tagar felt the effect almost immediately, like blood rewarming his numb limb, bringing feeling back into it. Tagar waited and flexed his fingers until he could feel them fully. He then picked up his fallen reaper, and pulled the other out of the last snap dragon's skull.

He smiled as a short, bright flash illuminated the sky and headed toward it. His heart filled with a smug satisfaction as he heard lumbering shapes come out of the water and begin tearing at the dead snap dragons.

* * *

Ril'zin pulled his sword out of the slimy neck muscles of one of the myrmidons. Goth'mog's bear was doing great at swatting away the arrows and getting hit in equal quantity, seemingly unaffected by the poisons on the barbs. Garkkil had kept firing and firing at the serpents until an arrow had struck his hand. Fortunately, going straight through, it didn't deliver enough poison to make it harmful. It did however stop him from firing any more bolts. Even more dire, Garkkil was also stopped from wielding the one-handed daggers that he favored effectively, and the situation forced him to improvise a broken crate panel for a shield; getting hit again and not getting poisoned was a lucky event that was unlikely to happen again soon.

Ril'zin focused his strike and threw, his glaive sailed swiftly and severed the arm of an accompanying sorceress. The foul siren wailed her pain, dropping a barnacle-encrusted staff, her long scaly tail flailing. Ril'zin caught the blade deftly as it returned. Still, more of the serpents came; the dead tallied ten or more of the vile snakes. Many of the four armed females hurled bolts of magic or shot bows from behind the trees.

A shielded male naga slithered under cover, a wickedly barbed spear in one hand and the two orcs focused their fire on it to pin the attack where it was. Ril'zin looked down at his brother who was still wheezing breaths through his throat, past the arrow that was still buried deep in it. The area around it had turned from the natural lavender of trollskin into a pus-filled gangrene. Ril'zin hoped that the poison hadn't reached a critical point in his brother's body.

The rogue was suddenly thankful for his brother being a dire troll. His size as well as the innate regenerative abilities of their kind was keeping it at bay. A trapper's net flew through the air and fell on the shielded Garkkil and Goth'mog. A team of naga began pulling them in.

Ril'zin raised his arm again to throw, but another net fell on him and pulled him from his feet making him drop the glaive. Ril'zin heard Goth'mog's bear roar of agony as it was netted by the naga, but instead of pulling the animal away the naga charged at it and mercilessly stabbed at it with their spears. Goth'mog roared in outrage while dragging on the ground.

Ril'zin stopped struggling once the net had taken him. He knew well enough that these types of nets were designed to be more entangled the more the prey struggled. He could also feel the enchantments on the twined ropes of the net, telling him it couldn't simply be cut. Ril'zin held his blades as best he could so that at the moment of opening he could-

A shadow passed over the tree line. Ril'zin hadn't noticed it before due to the desperate defence but now-

Several naga lit up in blue elemental energy, as electricity lanced through them bouncing from each one; a ragged burn hole showing on the chest of the nearest warrior. Ril'zin couldn't help but laugh aloud and the two orcs whooped in their nets. The main attack had come.

* * *

Eldrazaku flew low and then turned an aerial corkscrew, letting Darkeye decapitate a large male naga before levelling out. Eldrazaku landed on a bow-wielding naga siren, tearing into her with savage claws and silencing her high-pitched cries as the drake bit into her throat and tore it out. Darkeye dismounted and sliced the naga nearest him, sinking deep in azure scales. He was constantly pressured to disregard the dark whisperings and launch a death coil at the naga archers. There were at least sixty left.

The charge clove the naga forces apart. The near equal numbers meant that the two halves could not flank the wedged forces of Darkeye. Within the formation, the two shamans, Sharaa and Rogash, fired off arcs of lightning and druids smote with the wrath of nature in arcing orbs of energy. Lucas and the human priest Felrondor cast bolts of light and shadow at the serpents. In a genius manoeuvre, Felrondor created discord in the left flank using a Fear spell that sent the naga running, heedless of their defence, straight into the blades of the other mercenaries. The man deserved a bonus for that one Darkeye thought. Even enough numbers on both sides and the factor of surprise raised the odds in their favour by a landslide.

If his timing was right, the other part of the scouting elements along with Kulldor would be providing a fusillade of ranged fire from the flanks after seeing the flash of light.

"BROTHER LUCAS", he shouted over the din of battle, "SEE TO ZAL'ZAKK! I'M GOING TO FREE RIL'ZIN AND THE OTHERS!"

He saw the undead priest's eyes flash ghost light in understanding and he was off.

* * *

Brother… The smarmy devil had the temerity to call him Brother. Lucas could bear calling the elf Captain, even knowing what Gregor had told him; even knowing that the elf had been partly responsible for the havoc on his beloved Lordaeron.

Lucas could remember the burning of Alonsus chapel: the once-bastion of the Holy Light in Straholme, along with the innocents that either burned with the city, or died screaming their loved ones names. He decided he'd rather be mindless Scourge again than be in tolerance of brotherhood. It was just too bad that the elf was also undead now, otherwise Lucas could slip him Plague infused food or drink. And his Death Knight's body, seemingly frozen in time and not gruesomely rotting towards doom as a feral ghoul, didn't help matters either. Lucas supposed it could be part envy, but then again he envied anyone who still had the ability to breathe.

Nevertheless, he shambled over to the dire troll. What Lucas wouldn't give for a strong body and self-healing abilities like these. What wouldn't he give? Lucas thought of something as he stared at the unconscious form of the oversized hunter. The hunter's pet Devilsaur lay by his side looking at the body.

He pulled the arrow out, the material for the tip was crumbly and seemed to be like coral, it made the poison more effective he supposed; quickly staunching the bleeding while marvelling as the troll's flesh knitted quicker than others he'd seen. He tipped a vial of nostrums down the unconscious troll's throat, careful to avoid the long elephantine tusks. It ought to cure the poisons used by the naga to coat their arrows.

Lucas then opened his spellbook and whispered the incantation for Mind Control.

* * *

_Yes his claymore is a Voldrethar, the Dark Blade of Oblivion. I realize it might not count as a claymore due to its shape but let's just pass over that okay?_ :D


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15: Payment in Blood**

The hunters had returned on cue and had the naga surrounded in moments. Taken by surprise by a force that was unanticipated, the situation quickly reversed. Even one of the naga anomalies, which had tentacles instead of a serpentine tail, fell quickly before the continuous volley of projectiles. Darkeye felt ill-at-ease. The naga forces were substantial and if they learned of their defeat, another much larger force just might try and pass through here.

He turned as he heard thumping hoofbeats and the familiar voice. "Kulldor, anything?" he asked.

"No captain. Many of the Stonard inhabitants fled. Many more stayed, if quite permanently," Kulldor avoided his gaze; feeling no doubt, his personal decision to skirt the Horde encampment, quite deeply.

Darkeye squared his stance and planted the black claymore in front of his boots. "Take some men and bury them. It wasn't your fault. It was my call that we not alert anyone. We didn't know that the naga were here already. In fact, we were sent to ascertain their presence and act decisively should they be present. The attack worked and we only have five injured men. The heaviest casualty of which is Ril'zin's brother Zal'zakk, who is right there, hauling logs to burn the carcasses."

"Yes captain, I understand. We could have helped the camp residents though… Stonard will need to be rebuilt after this, not to mention being repopulated."

"Kulldor, the fact of the matter is, the Horde is not where we are allied to and what happens to those under their employ is not our concern, any more than the attack of Naxxrammas on Westguard before The Lich King was killed. Remember that assignment Kulldor?"

"Yes captain," Kulldor added a downcast expression to continue the act. Darkeye had manoeuvred him into it, and while not liking it, it made for a convincing captain-subordinate conflict in front of the men.

"We can report what has happened here to any who will listen. Apart from that, we aren't required to do anything else."

Darkeye looked away and felt everyone else's anticipation and glee. Another payday was near at hand.

* * *

The muscled carcasses burned and several of their mounts were used as pack animals to carry the scaly hides and the intact mystical items of the now decimated naga force. The nets used to capture Ril'zin and others were also salvaged. Those wouldn't be sold as it might prove useful to them. Darkeye gathered his hair and tied it into a ponytail to stop it from sticking to the drying blood on his plated pauldrons and had ordered the rogues to go out scouting again.

They were deployed in a screen facing the Misty Reed, watching for any other incursions by the naga. The garrison at Stonard was all dead and with them any chance of sending an easy message to his goblin employers and other obligations.

Ril'zin had been given permission to stay with the group and was beside his dire troll brother. Zalzakk was physically alright but he still seemed dazed. Lucas had said it was the proximity of the poisoned area to the brain. It would eventually wear off.

All in all it wasn't a bad battle. The paladins didn't even need to heal as Lucas and a couple of druids had been enough. There had been several rolls of mage weave and spell cloth found, enough for a short cloak and a set of robes. Sharaa's clothes would be prepared on the fly. Three of the humans were skilled couturiers and would be at work as soon as camp was set.

Usable weapons had also been collected, about fifteen in all. Sharaa was given two identical spell blades. It was nicely crafted and had serpentine coils on the handle to the pommel, the blade rife with runes and markings of the naga. It served the purpose for now, but it was clear that she looked at both in disdain. She had tested them out with arching strokes that sent blue lightning into a naga witch corpse. It was markedly more impressive than what she'd been doing at the beginning of the assault, not quite comparable to Rogash yet, but close. Her lips pursed but she sheathed it at her hip.

Thing is, there still wasn't an extra tent and she'd spent most of the journey sleeping in others' tents; notably those of the female humans and trolls. There was a slight complication about this setup however. The next campsite would be a celebratory one and no doubt be given to some revelries. She couldn't be made to sleep next to rutting men and women. And Darkeye was stll loath to give him over to any of the draenei men as she was the only female of their kind. Light-worshippers or not, drink could destroy inhibitions in anyone.

Hopefully he could convince several to abstain and remain on guard. A guard that would be personally led by Darkeye. That might solve the problem of Sharaa as well by leaving several vacant tents.

"Go on, we have to move out of this swamp before any possible counter-attacks arrive." Darkeye barked his orders

"We killed all of them. They can't report back." Eldrazaku's ephemeral voice said.

Darkeye massaged his forehead, "I said 'possible'. Not 'imminent'…"

Eldrazaku simply grunted.

* * *

Kulldor felt a strange tingle. He was sitting in front of a bonfire trying to drown out the impromptu music and the raucous laughter. He'd only had half of his molasses firewater so far. He wasn't drunk. Not even close. He'd once had three Sulfuron Slammers in a row on one occasion before he was unable to see clearly, but the tingle down his spine didn't go away. No. He was worried.

"Oy Tauren! Yer mug be a'slippin' from yer 'ands!" Dorg called.

And it did. Kulldor and the others gathered close leaped up and away from the bonfire as the firewater lived up to its name. Some of the others laughed with the dwarf who'd given the warning laughing loudest, for a while Kulldor laughed with them too. He gave them all a perfunctory shame-faced smile before leaving. He walked over to his tent and picked up his rifle, a clean rag, and a vial of gun oil.

* * *

Darkeye sat on Eldrazaku's saddle peering deep into the darkness. His eyes saw more than the average woodsman or probably even most elves. Emanations from the trees, winding and meandering ghosts, and poison fumes deep in the soil were just a little of what he could see.

'All causing a slow death for the world Death Knight, do you see? The passage of the demonic Legion and their once-lackeys, the Scourge has scarred this land deeply along with the night elf trinket that has been lost here. It's not noticeable yet and the druids at the Cenarion Circle are unaware of the taint and simply ignore it for more obvious tasks.'

"I cannot atone for all of the past sins Shadowmourne. I can barely atone for my own, let alone everything else…" Eldrazaku remained thankfully, silent.

'But that's why you are still alive are you not? You seek redemption. You want a chance to put things to right and having a hand in Arthas' death was merely the beginning for you. For us.'

"Yes. And you made me near-insane in pursuing that goal. Even when…" Darkeye clenched a leather gloved fist. He could not deny that he missed his armor somewhat, even after a couple of years on the run. He'd left the bulwark at Acherus after the end of the Argent Crusade. He'd taken to wearing a hodgepodge of armor pieces ever since; forged from Saronite or inlaid with it if possible. "…even when all I needed from you was the peace of a quiet death after Arthas' death, you refused to even wound me."

'There was no need. A wound was in you that was greater than anything we could inflict. Your wound was insanity and regret and remorse and despair.'

Darkeye remembered. He slipped off of Eldrazaku's back, leaving the unwrapped axe. By circumstances the forests of Duskwood was a poor place for privacy but he trusted to the loud celebration to mask his presence. Any intruders could be sensed through a field of death such as Duskwood, it was his element as the Blight is beneficial to his health, even as it killed the forests around him. Dark tree branches pointed accusingly.

Eldrazaku nudged him and he reached his hand under his friend's armor to stroke the serpentine head. Foreclaws dug into the ground like a dog's own paws. The flesh felt smooth and scale-less.

Darkeye had found the netherdrake egg through the course of his wanderings in Outland. He had been contemplating whether to lend his aid to the Argent Crusade or not. He was sure that if he did, the boy Darion would know him and his weapon immediately. When Eldrazaku hatched he empathized because what drake or wyrm of the netherflights was welcomed by any of the others? The black dragonflight of Deathwing shunned them despite their heritage, and the others are loath to trust the bastard spawn of Neltharion. They became companions as soon as Eldrazaku could bear his weight in flight and at a full sprawling run; pariahs who had found a common talent: A talent for killing.

At that thought, he felt heavy feet approach. He spoke without turning.

"I'm sorry for using your guilt feelings earlier Kulldor. It seemed necessary to dissociate myself from famil-" Darkeye stopped suddenly as he picked up something strange. The footsteps were not made by hooves.

* * *

_Sorry for the long delay. Midterms and all of that warpspawn..._


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16: Blood Flows

The steps broke into a run straight for him. Darkeye and Eldrazaku jumped away, the elf rolling on the ground and drake into the air, as a large polearm crashed down at where they had been moments before.

A ponderous tug and the halberd came free. A two-toed foot pinned Darkeye to the ground as muscular arms raised the spear, poised to impale. Darkeye grabbed the hilt of the dagger at his belt and stabbed it into the large foot. The large creature growled his irritation and the lessened pressure on his chest allowed Darkeye to trip the massive creature.

Darkeye had an idea of what was happening now but didn't want to countenance the possibility. He stood up and unsheathed his claymore, gripping it with two hands. The large hunched shape took the small blade still embedded in its foot and threw it into the darkness.

Darkeye knew that Zal'zakk couldn't fight it and wasn't responsible for his actions, but he couldn't let himself be seriously wounded. Who had done this there would have been no doubt but if he'd had allies among the mercenaries was not sure. One thing Darkeye was sure of, he'd have to destroy them if it was possible at this point.

Zal uttered a guttural growl, eyes unfocused and charged with his spear. Darkeye was thankful that whoever was pulling the strings, they had committed the oversight of not letting Zal use his bow. Maybe they had not meant Zal to kill him but vice-versa. Darkeye side-stepped and let the spear tip slide off the claymore then brought it down to cut the head. It snapped but in his moment of satisfaction a knee connected with Darkeye's stomach and sent him flying. He hit a tree and unceremoniously dropped to the ground. Luckily he hadn't lost his grip on the sword.

'But you have lost grip of your true weapon…' the inner voice said. Darkeye shook his senses awake again. He felt like vomiting blood but nothing came as it should. Darkeye groaned as he stood up. His ire trol adversary simply stood at he other end of the glade. Eldrazaku had taken the cue not to attack and simply flew overhead, a safe distance from arrows.

Darkeye looked at Zal'zakk, analysing his face. The face was slack but earlier he'd heard his subordinate make a sound. Usually, mind-controlled subjects could not use any muscles. So why?

Darkeye readied himself as the large troll poised to charge again. This time without a weapon made Darkeye sure. Zal was some form of interdiction to trap him here or a sacrificial pawn, unwilling or otherwise.

The large troll threw the headless spear at Darkeye which he parried with his claymore. He planted the sword's point into the ground and crouched ready to trip the troll.

Zal ran at Darkeye and closed the gap easily but suddenly staggered as something blindsided him. Darkeye looked up to see Ril'zin grappling with his brother speaking in incoherent Zandali. Zal swung a ponderous arm which Ril'zin ducked, and kicked which Ril'zin jumped over. Ril'zin looked like a spider as he climbed his far larger brother, his deep purple mohawk swaying as he did so.

"Captain, what has happened to him?" the rogue shouted.

"I think he's being magically coerced. A mind-control spell has been placed on him," Darkeye shouted, breaking his prior battle silence.

Ril'zin was prudent enough to not ask who was capable of doing so. Instead, he tried to knock his brother into sense or at the least unconsciousness with the pommel of his twin swords. Zal flailed is arms trying to grab hold of his brother who, despite the constant movement that was required to avoid them, was still knocking on Zal's skull.

* * *

Kulldor creeped alongside his spirit creature companion and ducked low to avoid attracting attention. The red-clad soldiers were unmistakable and so was their strutting and haughty manner. They had come charging under a hail of arrows; arrows that were aimed to pin their quarry to the ground or to the trees. It was well executed, it had to be. Kulldor could see that there were only twenty to thirty of them. The first nets emerged moments after the initial attack and the ones who were in their tents were simply trapped inside by the soldiers cutting the support lines.

Many of the mercenaries still around the fires were shitass drunk and couldn't defend themselves. Except maybe Dorg who'd gotten his axe as the first arrows landed. He was backed into a corner and quickly detained. Kulldor backed away silently as he could and then behind a tree. He needed to warn Darkeye.

* * *

Tagar's wrists chafed against the rope. The mercenaries were placed in one area and under considerably heavier guard. The humans, draenei, trolls, orcs, and tauren were tied up and hauled to the outer portion of the camp where no doubt more of the Scarlet Onslaught soldiers lurked. Several of the red clad militia now had bows pointing their way. The situation was getting worse.

His weapons had been left in the tent, an oversight that he presently regretted. The paladins and rangers paced around the camp and around the captured mercenaries. The guard had been either too lax or too few and the others too drunk. Tagar was a little too tipsy himself and now he just might end his mercenary career by dying on his first assignment on the job. He snatched up a sharp rock from the forest floor where he was seated. Maybe he could get free without being noticed.

* * *

Two trolls and four orcs away from Tagar, Sharaa was trying the same thing. She was trying to call a little fire to herself. She needed to move a little for it to work but any loud incantations would be known. So far, all she had were sparks and she muffled them by reclining into the tree behind her.

* * *

Rogash saw and felt what Sharaa was trying to do but didn't imitate it. From his count several of their men had made it out into the wilds and would be able to return to save the ones captured. Among the ones absent were a couple of the human warriors and the new human paladin Gregor. Lucas was also missing from the huddled group.

They had all been thoroughly disarmed. Dorg had tried to fight but had gotten a knee to his bulbous nose for his defiance. The dwarf sulked in a corner of the meadow farthest from Rogash, blood flowing from his broken nose.

Rogash forced his slightly inebriated mind to think rationally. Not trying escape was a sign for the better and tried to do better. His vision cleared for the time being, he saw that five were the ones giving orders. The others scurried around to and fro, and of the five, four were also under the command of one. The man had graying hair tied back and a large warhammer. Clearly a paladin, but the armor and styling meant that he had been among the Silver Hand before joining the ranks of the Scarlet Onslaught. Some called him Lord Paladin, and the human woman beside him who was clearly his second called him Truesight.

And that was another puzzling thing. If the Onslaught was now in Northrend who were these soldiers in their red livery who had just captured them? And Rogash was angry for more than the reason of their seeming ease of capture. For one, the soldiers had burned the spare skins that were tradeable and had kept the looted weapons putting a dent in the group hazard pay. Another was that many of the other tents were raided for supplies and much of their possessions now hung as trophies on the soldiers' livery. Soldiers… more like highway bandits.

Listening intently a bit longer, Rogash found out that they seemed to be unable to enter the captain's tent which stood in the middle of camp. It seems Captain Darkeye had placed many magical wards on the thing and despite the sword blows, they had so far been unable to penetrate the patchwork of skins and fabric.

Rogash looked around. Darkeye wasn't among the captured. So where was he?

* * *

By the time Kulldor arrived, Darkeye had taken several armor-denting blows and one long scar that extended from his shoulder to his neck. The pauldron on that same shoulder was lying on the ground somewhere.

He brushed his hair out of the way as he checked on Ril'zin. Zal'zakk had thrown his brother into the forest canopy from which he later fell onto the ground in a heap.

Prodigious grunts and growls came from the edge of the clearing. Kulldor wrestled with the dire troll, his spear already broken and tossed aside. Darkeye knew that his friend would not last long. Kulldor was not a hardened warrior, but a hunter. Unused to the up close and personal form of combat and now without his spear, the tauren was now at disadvantage.

Darkeye stood after feeling for Ril'zin's pulse, which was thankfully present. The troll's regeneration would fix up most internal injuries if any. He was also aware that other noises other than their battle against Zal could be heard. Kulldor was right. They'd been attacked and Zal's controller was running interference.

* * *

Wish I could say my personal life could be kept out of my writing habits but yeah... It can't so go figure. Thanks for viewing. Rate at least and review if you have the time. Throw me a bone here... :)


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter ****17: Death Incarnate**

Darkeye narrowly avoided Kulldor as he was finally overpowered and sent flying. The elf fought with all the grace of his birthright but Zal'zakk was indeed strong. It was all he could do to avoid the troll's flailing arms and low kicks.

Darkeye did his best to avoid them but try as he might he was still subject to quite a few hits.

'Stop dancing Old One and fight!' The sudden upsurge in the intent to kill was overwhelming. Time slowed, and right above his upturned face was an opening. Darkeye almost brought his arm up, his sword would have pierced Zal's chin and come out the back of his neck.

Instead, Darkeye hesitated and got a swipe that lifted him off his feet and made his sword fly out of his hand.

'Stop dancing Old One or you will die here.'

"Stop dancing around Death Knight!" Heavy foot falls could be heard, plated boots and iron shoes cracked twigs and leaves. Their red-flame tabards worn over their cuirasses proclaimed who they were. Zal'zakk stood suddenly still like the puppet he now was. Which of these he wondered had been able to do this? Darkeye scanned the faces for a mitre or a ritual stave or even a crosier.

A heavyset man strode forward with a long-hafted warhammer. The hammer had clear marks of a silver fist. Whether looted or not, it was slightly impressive to see a relic of the Silver Hand.

"Who are you talking to Paladin?" Darkeye spat the words with contempt. "More importantly what have you and your cronies done to my subordinate? Why did you attack our warrior band?"

The paladin's lips curled in a sneer. "I haven't the foggiest idea of what you're talking about Death Knight." The man's spit flew on the last syllable. "Far as we're concerned, we're simply doing away with the evil that is the Scourge."

"And I thought you zealots had relocated to Northrend? What happened, a change of heart or mind?" Darkeye leaned on one leg.

"Oh they left, and began employing your ilk, finally giving in and bastardizing our old order-", the Paladin stopped mid-sentence. "No matter, I didn't come here to justify myself to you-"

"So what did you come here to do Lord Harthal Truesight of the Silver Hand?"

"YOU BASTARD! You have no right! NO RIGHT to invoke that name!" The paladin screamed. His grip tightened on his hammer and the men on his side, though heartened by seeing their leader's fire, moved away a foot or two.

"I have every right. You attacked my camp, looted my men's belongings, and now you spout your bigotry in my face like it's justified."

"Justified? Oh hell yes it is son. Your pointy ears heard me correctly. You know what you sons of bitches did. Just look around you" he gestured to the forest around him.

The paladin had probably didn't know of the ancient artifact that caused the devastaion here and simply blamed it on the machinations of the Scourge. Darkeye conceded that it was easier to apportion the blame to a single entity. And if Darkeye told him of what he knew about the Druids of the Pack all those years past he'd simply be called a liar by the deluded.

"You waste your time talking to this undead thing Harthal. Kill it and let's leave."

The voice was husky and deep. The woman strode forward. Clad in simple leather armor with plated leggings, two identical swords were in her hands, and a killing gleam in her eyes.

Darkeye raised an eyebrow. "Ah… I see you're not alone in returning Lord Paladin. Would you be-"

"-Valea Twinblade you scum. We're all here to do away with you, aren't you proud?"

"To merit the attentions of highway robbers is hardly something to be proud of."

"Oh you damnable-"

Darkeye strode over to where Eldrazaku had let Shadowmourne fall and placed it on his back harness. "Temper, temper… no need to muss up that pretty face in anger now… Relax. What can I do for you all?" Darkeye smiled and spread his hands like a merchant showing his wares. "By what my currently unconscious associate tells me you couldn't enter my tent so you just tried to burn it down. That's not very polite a thing to do to your host in my opinion."

"Who cares about your opinion you monster?" Truesight growled.

Valea's hand pulled on his pauldron. "Don't let him goad you."

"Oh come now children, can't an old geezer have his fun?" Darkeye spread his hands in a shrug. The sharpest eyes would have seen his eyes exude a blue energy, but then all elves eyes glowed.

* * *

Kulldor listened from his slumped seat under the tree. He could make out Ril'zin's prone form from under his dark mane. He looked alright but insensate. His swords were in his hands which would be good if he'd wake up.

Kulldor listened as the old elf goaded and teased close to twenty soldiers including one irate paladin and a warrior woman. He'd told Thagur to stay hidden before he tousled with the dire troll. The dark blue spirit hound stayed but whined in dissent. Kulldor knew that he'd stay because he'd trained Thagur well. Even when he was getting beaten up by Ril'zin's feral brother the hound stayed.

Thagur's obedience was good because the crusaders weren't alarmed yet.

That would change when Ril'zin showed signs of waking. Kulldor felt the painful pressure of having pressed his rifle to the tree. No sudden movements.

Two or three blades unsheathed. Kulldor desperately wanted to see what was happening but couldn't without alerting the crusaders.

"The woman just went into battle-readiness…" A small hand cupped his muzzle but was prevented from moving by his desire to not be found out. Gwendolyn looked at him sidelong. Her stealth was astounding and it worried Kulldor. "Don't worry, I'm not with them. Not like your priest friend."

Kulldor's eyes widened under his long fall of hair. Everything was suddenly clearer.

* * *

Tagar held the footman's blade to his hostage's thoat. The man's allies pointed their weapons at Tagar's fellow mercenaries. It wasn't much of a standoff. The druids were going to get out first if they could transform past the ropes of tough frostweave. It wasn't enchanted which was how Tagar had worn it down, and cut his hands severely in the process.

In another minute or two, the pain would overwhelm his hand and make him drop the sword. "Drop them or your friend dies here and anyone else I can take with me!" The other footmen and the archers looked at one another for a brief moment and then focused on the man in Tagar's grip.

Tagar was surprised when a single arrow whisled and then hit the man in the throat. An audible gasp permeated the dark grove, and then shouts of contempt and horror. Accusations of zealotry and other less desirable names were thrown at the soldiers by the mercenaries. The soldiers looked around at the braying, shouting mass trying to muscle them into submission.

Tagar charged. And lightning crackled hitting three of the perched marksmen, othes were flung by the very trees as the two tauren and two - druids roared and howled in anger not needing to move to make basic commands to their leafy allies. Sharaa had burned through the ropes and was now setting a small stone fetish down, imbuing it with the right energies and letting it shoot fire at the soldiers who were beginning to fall back.

Discipline made the soldiers form a shield wall close to each other, the remaining archers firing from behind them.

To Sharaa and the now freed Rogash Wraithstorm, they just made their final, deadliest mistake.

* * *

Valea was fast, her two-sword technique forced him into the defensive and blows fell like hail on the flat side of Shadowmourne, tearing at the wrappings. She darted around him like a swallow, narrowly missing him each time; the huge axe was getting in his way.

'There is only one thing in our way Old One and it is not my size or her speed.'

Darkeye fell back while on the defensive, maybe he could snatch up his black sword and use it instead. Provided he could find it in the grass.

'Stop your stalling and free us. Free yourself. FREE YOURSELF NOW.'

* * *

"Oh light save us…" Gwendolyn whispered. And Kulldor risked a glimpse but as he caught sight of Darkeye with his arms raised, the world turned dark. No, rather the world turned deaf, dumb and blind. He could no longer sense a thing save that some immense entity was rushing into the grove.

Somewhere it seemed that a chorus of voices could be heard, raised in praises to some goddess, next it was the roar of demons from across the empyrean plane, and another a deafening impact of such energy that Kulldor needed to cover his ears but to no avail. The next was a compelling coldness and the laughter of a thirsting being shrouded in ice, and a final clear bell's ringing that Kulldor himself had heard five years ago.

All the while a sound united them all: the rushing, breakneck speed of something unfathomably massive coming toward them. Kulldor had no words for it, and neither did Gwendolyn but many who have been on the wrong end of their weapons might have been able to tell them what that sound was.

It was the sound of Death.

* * *

_Long vacation and a hiatus from playing WoW... 2 chapters though._


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter ****18: Duty Be Damned**

Kulldor gave up any pretense of stupor and stood up, shielding his gaze from the now brilliant ball of light encasing Darkeye. In fact there was no other light anymore; all of it seemed to have been drawn into the globe around the elf.

"What's happening?" Gwen, likewise had dragged Ril'zin to the safety of a nearby tree, the shadows around her seemed hard and flat. "What is he?"

Kulldor looked at her and ducked behind a tree adjacent. "He's released the seals on Shadowmourne…" his voice was full of resigned dread, not noticing that he'd left the question unanswered.

"Shadowmourne?" Gwen said, "His runeweapon?" then mumbled something. Kulldor didn't hear her for the roaring wind and his focus on the scene unfolding.

Kulldor was concerned that he could not sense anything beyond the meadow. All perception seemed to gather around Darkeye alone.

Gwen's hand pulled down her bandana, her brow knotted with what Kulldor took as a mix of confusion, worry, and anger. Kulldor hadn't even begun to wonder why the human was angry when everything exploded.

* * *

Tagar had brought down two of the footmen, hooking their necks with his thick arms and twisting. The dull cracks had been satisfying. Disarmed, the massed group of mercenaries had tried their best and used their numbers to their advantage. Manoeuvring the crusaders out of the clearing, some of them used rocks and sticks to throw. The rogues and the hunters meanwhile had not been searched thoroughly and still had some of their small knives. Sharaa and the other magic users such as Rogash hurled lightning, making it sizzle across the footmen's shields.

The mercenaries pushed them back until they were within sight of the captain's tent. There, a second group of soldiers guarded a pile of their looted belongings. The guards joined together, making a surprising mistake of keeping them from their weapons.

The other mercenaries in the rear dashed for the armaments and replaced the ones for the front. No time was wasted in choosing. What was important was one was armed. The magic users such as the shamans and druids covered the gambit with their powers.

Lightning arched between the gnarled trees and hit two crusader footmen in the chest, the other blue-white tendrils scorched the grass, lacking the precise focusing aim from staves or mageblades.

* * *

The scene was white. No twilight colors existed in this sudden-death realm. A black lightning flash arched upwards followed by a silent scream, an open mouth from which an unseen soul exited. The barbut fell away cloven in half and the crusader's face was only visible as shadowy highlights in the deadlight, a massive scar running through the plate armor's gorget.

The silhouette walked through the crusaders, emanating awe and fury. Hardly even exerting effort to parry away the blind blows from the footmen, the shape walked through their throng until he stood behind their position. As the darkness descended once more, the bearded elf's eyes changed. The dark pupils now aflame with a chilling blue light, a light almost comparable to the greataxe he held lightly in one hand and the demonhead device on the face of its large blade whose eyes seemed alive with rage, even more than sorrow.

"The first real mistake was thinking I'd leave a part of myself in a mundane tent…" The elf's mouth moved but the voice seemed to come from the trees themselves.

A steely, flanging had merged into the deep voice, as if two different men were speaking. The voice sounded distracted but sardonically instructing idiot sheep of why it was important to run away from a wolf.

"The other was to think with your hearts on your sleeves. Your convictions, righteous as they may be have led you to wait until I used my runeblade. More honor for mortal peril?" One long lashed eye looked sidelong at the crusaders.

The paladin hefted his warhammer into a defensive stance and when one of the footmen tried to back away, reached out a plated arm and grabbed the fearful soldier by the neck.

"Take a good long look at what we came here to kill men. This is what destroyed our lands, your homes, our people, your families." Lord Harthal's voice was calm but rang with an inner conviction. Darkeye supposed that it felt good to these men to think that their enemy was this singular.

Darkeye prepared for their imminent charge. Shadowmourne only smiled.

* * *

Harthal Truesight saw the elf and his sliver of a sneer. It was insulting, but he didn't let it goad him. This elf- this creature must be dealt with through overwhelming numbers and he had but seven men and Valea. If he could use Valea's speed…

Of course it hung Valea out to dry in the face of the Death Knight, but had he himself not done it to hundreds of his own Scarlet Crusaders while assaulting Straholme? What was seven unhorsed militia knights and a Scarlet Champion like himself? Hell even if he himself died, just so long as he took this wretch with him it'd be—

"A good death, Paladin? A good death? Come and give it to me then! Give me death! Death, my oldest companion through the long years", the Death Knight laughed, the voice flanging into two voices.

Harthal flinched. He could have sworn the thing just plucked the thought from his mind. But damn that voice unnerved him a little. And it more than showed its effect on the men. They were whispering in their barbutes, and more than one's shield arm was rattling the armor it wore.

Harthal looked at recruit that the wretch had hacked apart. The tear ran the length of the lamellar harness, from the groin and out the neck on the left side. Light that runeaxe was sharp. He gave a short, silent prayer to the soul of his soldier that was now no doubt imprisoned in the ponderous weapon.

His caution burned away. That kid was young, and only wanted to change his homeland back to the way it was. It was too much to think about now.

Now, there was no time to think on the cost of duty.

Now, it was time to fight.

Time to fight.

* * *

The young soldier picked up a curved blade studded with moon motifs. Strange that the old sword still bore such imagery when his pale skin declared for all what his brilliant blue eyes already announced.

Highborne.

The youth of two hundred didn't feel any arrogance at all; none that their Moon-worshipping kin condemned them for. The nobility may have seemed high-handed to him of late, especially to those who scorned the sacred waters, but all the young Highborne elf knew was duty. His duty was to protect the Great Queen as she completed a ritual that was of the utmost importance.

Xephyrien Flamehawk slung a heavy crossbow and a satchel of bolts on his back and an umbra crescent on his hip. He sheathed his scimitar and walked out the barracks, purple lightning erupted about the Eternal Palace, and a green haze seemed to have become the common sight above the waters of the Well of Eternity. None of his fellow rank and file knew anything, only that an aura of terror came from the Queen's residences. The Eternal Palace retained its magnificence, yet unwholesomeness permeated the very grounds. As a junior officer, Xephyrien had only been to the outer grounds of the magnificent edifice, and then only once. Back then the ambience spoke of grace and blessedness, and an unending spirit of bliss.

Xephyrien blinked the remembrances away. This was not the time for them, he picked at the burnt butts that were in his ash tray, and decided to throw them away when he returned. If he returned.

Duty. Xephyrien strode to a side street. Many were the ones who hurried away, inside their homes; all of them with bluish or purple skin. He kept his head down to avoid looking at any of them. He walked toward the gates and the warders there. At their request, he opened his palm to a bluish flame materialize there, proving that he was of the Queen's faithful. They opened the gates and brought forth a saddled horse for him. His officer's status decreed it. He let his tiny flame burn freely, feeding it a tiny trickle of mana from his respectable reserves. He wondered why his prudish brethren would even refuse to embrace this power. After all, it was their true heritage. The lake water was what brought them up, reared them like a mother's teat to the ageless life that was their reality. Was it not Elune's birthplace? Even her son, the demigod Cenarius called the lake waters sacred.

So was it them? The Queen's chosen? Could it have been simple jealousy; the Queen's preference towards those who were her trusted? Surely not. The people could not be so forgetful of the Queen Azshara's love for her people. She may have become more confined to her palace because of her long studies with her advisors, but to credit such stories as summoning of foul creatures using the arcane powers was ludicrous. Strange noises, foul utterings, disappearances among the populace; more likely perpetuated by the simple-minded and prudish to bring the blessed Queen's name to simple ruin. This may be it. But Xephyrien was not sure, could not be sure. And yet his orders were. How did it come to this?

Duty. That was how. Duty, and trusting that the ones in the chain of command knew what to do. He rode his steed to the outskirts of a small village and dismounted at a meadow with only a dryad statue for a witness. A female ranger appeared from the shadows to take his reins, aware that her bow had been poised for a shot at him just moments before he entered the clearing.

"How are we doing?"

She bowed her head, her hair was still tinged green but the pinkish skin on her ears showed her coming change. "Two five-man squads on the eastern and northern edges sir, this is where the main force sits along with the western group of which I am a part of."

"Good. Do not rush in like the amateurs I know you are. Pick off those that seek to run. We do not want an initial panic. Make them think we're a routine patrol passing by and we'll get by easily, and only come when my main group is under dire threat," Xephyrien paused and looked sidelong at the ranger, "Any soldiers voiced concerns about the objective?"

"Some have… called this a massacre Sir Xephyrien. These fishermen do not appear to be a threat."

"What they appear to be and what we are told they are, are two different things entirely. Keep it in mind. They harbor dissenters and encourage false rumours about our Queen, this is why they must be made example of. The Queen needs you to do your duty," Xephyrien said, and walked away. He only half believed it.

Xephyrien did not give her time to voice more doubts. He was sure it was probably to clear his head. He must be committed. Yet, in his heart the doubts lingered and he didn't want to stay under the young ranger's scrutiny as he pondered these things.

Another elf raised a hand in greeting, pulsing blue tendrils with mana. He was obviously young. Younger than the female ranger, but his skin tone was a perfect paleness even more then Xephyrien's own. The eyes glowed as the sky above them, azure in a background of green forest, the look on them was condescending. The youth planted his staff in the ground and haughtily eyed him, gilt-edged robes swaying in a noon breeze. "Commander. Good that you've **finally** come. I'd have led these men myself had you shown up an hour too late."

Xephyrien raised a soot-black eyebrow. The boy was so sure of himself, proud in the fact, reveled in it. "Still your impatience, magos, we're getting started. Follow my orders and I won't pin you to a tree with a knife and list you as a battle casualty. I prefer discipline in my ranks to overzealous idiocy." The young mage seemed cowed for the moment, but leered at him from under the brim of a wide hat.

He walked on through, inspecting their gear without them knowing, but of course his silent regard was noticed. He gave the order and they walked toward the town.

Three magi and a dozen soldiers with various accoutrements trudged into the town. The villagers took notice but weren't alarmed. Few of them were in recognizable uniform aside from Xephyrien himself, marking him as the leader. They entered and stopped beside the well in the center of the fishing village. It was then that the screaming and running started, and the mewling children only to be stopped mid-scream.

He took no joy or pride in killing his kinsmen. None of them did, save perhaps the mages, prominently the young one who'd been so sure of himself.

But he had to do it. It was duty damn it.

Duty be damned.

* * *

_#2 upload..._


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